


Ghosts of Christmas Past

by oldenuf2nb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Curses, Getting Back Together, M/M, Magical Theory, Mystery, Obsession, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 01:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 51,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17695406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb
Summary: Six years ago, Draco left Harry with no more explanation than a note sayingI have to go. Now he's back because Teddy is 7 and it's time to start teaching Teddy about his magical heritage. Just Harry's luck that it takes both a male blood relative and his god-father.Harry's resolved to ignore Draco as much as possible... but Harry's heart has other ideas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: This is a re-post of my 2010 fic that I wrote for 25 Days of Draco and Harry for LJ community slythindor100.
> 
> Prompt used for this part: 

Typically, it didn’t snow much in London.

Oh, it got chilly enough that his heavy Auror robes actually made sense with the weather, unlike spring and summer when wearing the thick red wool was miserable. (He’d been campaigning for years for lighter versions of the almost military appearing robes for the warm months, without success.) Most of the time from May thru September, Harry only wore the bloody things when he absolutely had to. But when he took the lift up to street level, and exited the Ministry through the magically camouflaged main exit, he was grateful for the bulky robes; not only was it really cold, it was snowing. Enchanted by the sight of the thick flakes swirling in the chilly air, with Big Ben standing sentinel in the background, Harry paused with his face lifted, inhaling the crisp air, taking in the almost magical scene. He missed the snowy Christmas’s of his school days; there was just something about Christmas and snow that went together in his mind.

And then a Muggle double-decker went by, splashing mud on his boots, and the charm was gone, just like that. Grimacing, Harry shook the muck from his pant legs and set out across the crowded street, making his way towards the Leaky Cauldron.

The pub was warm and crowded when he pushed through the door, the fragrances of shepards pie and mulled pumpkin juice a spicy counterpoint to the thick pipe smoke. Several people looked up and hailed him as he passed, greetings he returned with a smile and a nod, but he didn’t pause. He was late as it was, and he’d already steeled himself for the inevitable lecture. Stepping out through the back door, he crossed to the brick wall and tapped the bricks absently in order, so accustomed to it now that he could do it in his sleep. The wall groaned and shifted, bricks slipping into new formations to create the arched entryway to Diagon Alley. He waved his wand negligently as he passed through, hearing the grinding of the mortar as the wall returned to its previous state, slipping the hawthorn wand back into the holster strapped to the outside of his sleeve as he strode briskly along. A breeze tossed an eddy of powdery flakes into his face, and he flipped his collar up around his chin.

Diagon Alley was a wondrous place at any time, but as Christmas approached, it truly seemed enchanted. The windows were once again alight with flickering torches and colored lanterns, brilliant with assorted eye popping displays. The dark years of the war were long forgotten, but for the fact that anyone who had seen what a sad and grey place Diagon had become could not help but make comparisons. Its pre-Voldemort exuberance was back, ten fold, and it always made Harry smile. Especially when he came within sight of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. A mad riot of color even during the war, now, it was a child’s storybook run amok.

He pushed through the bright orange doors, dodging two young boys who ran past shooting some sort of spark guns at one another and ducked around a gaggle of pre-teen girls who were gathered near the hot pink, ‘love potion’ display. One of them caught sight of him, her eyes widening comically, and she elbowed her friend.

“Oh, my God, it’s Harry Potter,” she gasped, then turned red when he looked at her and smiled. Her friend stared, mouth slightly open.

“Isn’t he  _gorgeous_?” Harry heard behind him. He sped his pace as he started up the stairs that led to the second floor; he never had gotten used to the ‘fangirls’, as Hermione teased him.

The second floor was filled with more merchandise, most of it of far less interest to the younger set. The games and toys were now reserved to the vast main floor; the second floor was for stealth and tracking merchandise, as well as some rather advanced spying and eavesdropping items. Some of it was just barely legal under Ministry law, but Harry chose to look the other way. They still stocked things like the extendable ears and Peruvian Darkness Powder, and he simply wasn’t hypocrite enough, unlike some of his colleagues, to take issue with them. He climbed the second staircase at the back of the crowded sales floor, up to the door that led the private flat that occupied the entire third floor. There was a note on the door that read ‘Harry, just come in!’, and he read it with a half smile before removing it and entering.

When Ron and Hermione had first moved into the flat above the store, it had been right after Ron had decided to leave the Auror training program to go into business with George, and Hermione had still been clerking at the MLE. Now, six years later, Ron was the managing partner in Diagon Alley while George lived above the Hogsmeade store, and Hermione was the manager of Flourish and Blotts, taking over for old Mr. Flourish when he retired. Everyone had been surprised when Hermione had left the Ministry; everyone but Harry. “Given the choice between books and the law,” he’d said, “the law didn’t stand a chance.” The fact that she adored her job was simply a plus.

As Harry entered the large, homey flat, he spotted a small figure with a head full of bright red curls, wearing unicorn printed pyjamma’s, lying on her stomach before the fire. She was coloring in a large book, her small tongue held between her teeth in concentration. Harry tip-toed up behind her, then knelt and leaned over to study the neatly colored rendering of a fire breathing dragon on the page.

“Very nice, Rosie,” he said fondly. She turned and looked up at him, her blue eyes very wide.

“Uncle Harry!” she said in delight, abandoning her crayon to throw her arms around his neck. He kissed her on the cheek as she squeezed him.

“How’s my favorite girl?”

She sat back, rolling her eyes. “I’m not your favorite girl,” she said, her tone so like her mother’s that Harry could only smile. “Gramma Molly is your favorite girl. I heard you say so.”

Harry pretended to frown thoughtfully. “She’s my favorite girl who bakes biscuits,” he said. “ **You**  are my favorite girl who colors dragons. There’s a huge difference.” She gave him a look that clearly said she wasn't buying it for a moment, and flopped back down onto her tummy. “Where are your mum and dad?”

“They’re in the kitchen,” she answered, retrieving her crayola. “Talking about you.”

“Oh, really,” Harry said, fighting another smile. “Something secret?”

Rosie frowned. “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure.” She paused and looked up at him. “Would it be a secret that you don’t like dragons?”

Harry blinked. “I don’t?”

“That’s what Daddy said,” Rosie answered, turning back to her drawing. “He told Mummy that she should just mind her own business, because finding out about a dragon would just upset you.” She paused again and looked up at him, all wide eyes and pursed pink lips. “Do dragons upset you, Uncle Harry?”

Harry stared into her eyes. “No, dragons don’t…” His words trailed away and he turned his head and stared at the kitchen door, a strange, rushing sound in his ears. Slowly, he stood and crossed to the door, his hand spreading in the middle of it. Even before he pushed it open, he could hear their voices.

“I still think it would be better coming from us,” Hermione was saying.

“Leave it alone, Hermione,” Ron replied, sounding as if his head were in their pantry. “Harry’s a big boy; he can handle it.”

“I never said that I didn’t think he could handle it,” she shot back, and Harry heard the oven door shut firmly. “I just think it would be kinder to have a warning than to just run into him some afternoon in Diagon.”

“He’ll hear about it before then.” Harry heard a cupboard door open, and the clink of glass. “Like anything’s a secret in this town. Especially something like that. Skeeter will strain herself trying to get to him.”

“But that’s just the point,” Hermione argued. “You want him to hear this from that horrid cow rather than from us?”

“I don’t want him to hear it at all.”

“That isn’t reasonable, Ronald. You said yourself….”

Unable to stand it any longer, his heart pounding at the base of his throat, Harry pushed open the door. Immediately, Hermione’s brown eyes lifted to his face and the words died in her throat. Sensing the change in the atmosphere, Ron straightened and turned, two bottles of amber ale in his hand.

“Hey, mate,” he said, his face coloring. He held up the bottles. “Care for a pint?”

Harry ignored him and looked back at Hermione, one brow arched. She sighed, her hands twisting at her waist. “We heard it this afternoon,” she said, not even pretending not to know what he was waiting to hear. “He’s been back in the country since yesterday.”

Carefully schooling his features, Harry stepped into the kitchen and walked to the small round table, pulling out a chair and lowering himself into it, his hands spreading on the white table cloth as he stared down at them.

“Harry…” Hermione began faintly. He didn’t need to see what was going on behind him; her eyes lifting to Ron’s, the sharp shake of his head in response. He felt a large, square hand drop onto his shoulder and a bottle of ale appeared in his line of vision. He looked at it, then back down at the table, swallowing before he spoke.

“I don’t suppose you have any fire whiskey?” he managed, his voice tight.

He heard the clink of glasses behind him, the only sound in the otherwise heavily silent kitchen.


	2. Prophesies Suck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt used for this part:

Harry stared at the candles in the middle of the small table in front of his worn, over-stuffed sofa. They’d been a gift from Hermione, and he’d lit them when he’d gotten home from his friends flat, not wanting the dark, but not wanting the intrusiveness of larger lamps, either. Forgotten was the heaviness of his robes, his exhaustion, his wet boots, even the awkward dinner he’d shared with Ron and Hermione and Rosie. It was disconcerting, how perceptive Rosie’s eyes had been as she’d studied him. Now his eyes were on the flames that flickered in the midst of each fat, red candle, but he wasn’t seeing them. His mind was a thousand miles, and six years, away.  
  
He’d been almost nineteen when he’d fallen in love for the first time. He thought he’d loved Cho Chang, and he thought he’d loved Ginny Weasley, but when love had actually happened, it had hit him with the intensity of a Quaffle to the mid-section, with very similar results; he’d fallen hard, and fast, and for a long time, experienced a heady rush accompanied by the inability to get a deep breath.  
  
It wasn’t just that love had challenged everything he thought he knew about himself, although that had certainly been a part of it. He’d expected to love a  _girl_ , not a pure-blood, pointy git. And it wasn’t that he’d been afraid, even though in retrospect, he’d been terrified. It was the idea that you could go from hating someone fiercely, to loving them just as fiercely, seemingly without any conscious decision on your part; the arbitrariness of it had been confounding. After all, up until the moment it began, he couldn’t remember a single day since he’d been eleven when he hadn’t wanted to hex him.  
  
Well, that wasn’t strictly true, Harry reminded himself now with the honesty that only the half empty bottle of fire whiskey near his elbow and loneliness could bring. The flames swam before his eyes.  
  
He hadn’t wanted to hex him when he’d seen the abject terror on his face as he’d held his trembling wand on Dumbledore, then began to lower it. He hadn’t wanted to hex him when he’d seen through the eyes of a madman the things he’d been forced to do in the name of trying to salvage his family honor. He hadn’t wanted to hex him when, his own eyes nearly swollen shut, he’d seen recognition on the pale face and yet, he’d not betrayed them. And he hadn’t wanted to hex him when that slender, sweaty hand had reached up out of a sea of flames, and he’d pulled him up onto the broom behind him, only to feel that same hand hold onto him so hard it had hurt.  
  
With the introspection of six years, he could say now that it was the moment things had truly changed between them; that dizzying broom ride out of hell. It had happened so fast that at the time it seemed almost inconsequential. But afterwards he would live it, in minute detail, over and over again; the hand curled into his shirt, the face pressed to the back of his neck, the heart pounding against his spine. It had changed everything… absolutely everything.  
  
When the time had come to return his wand, and the slender hand had been offered once again, this time Harry hadn’t hesitated. They’d been almost nineteen, the trials were over. It had been the time to put the past behind them. He’d taken the hand in his, found it cold and trembling, and couldn’t help but admire the courage it took to hold it out, even in the face of what had clearly been fear of rejection. By then, the last thing Harry had wanted to do was reject him… He fingered the wand in the holster on his sleeve absently, not even aware that he was doing it…  
  
Exhaling heavily, he sat forward, the old couch complaining with a creak as he rubbed his hands over his face, then let them drop to hang between his knees. People had tried to warn him, he recalled listlessly. Ron and Hermione, ever steadfast, had staunchly maintained that Harry’s love life was his own business and everyone else should bugger off, but he’d seen the looks of concern they exchanged when they thought he wasn’t looking. Others hadn’t been so circumspect; his classmates as he’d made his way through the Academy, his old Gryffindor dorm mates, all were outspoken in their belief that he’d lost his bloody mind. Ginny had been surprisingly supportive even though George told him he was thinking with his prick, and a man’s prick had no interest in undying devotion, just the next convenient well-lubed hole. Arthur had seemed bewildered, but Molly… well, Molly had never been much good at hiding her feelings.  
  
The reaction of the Wizarding public at large, when the fateful article appeared in Skeeter’s column just after his twenty first birthday, had been as mixed as opinion had always been about Harry; while some were outraged, most didn’t care that he was gay, necessarily. But his choice of partner? That was pretty much universally frowned upon, and that was putting it mildly.  
  
He hadn’t cared. He’d held his head high, one of those fuckwit fools who steadfastly believed that ‘love conquered all’.  
  
He closed his eyes on a sigh and ran his fingers over the ache that had begun between his brows. An imprint of the flames that were guttering in the three candles were singed on his retinas and flickered behind closed lids; the candles themselves were burned low and as warped and distorted as his foolish, idealistic beliefs had become. It was tough to remain steadfast in the cold light of day, when the man you loved simply disappeared, taking your heart with him...  
  
…even for someone who had defeated darkness with ‘a power the Dark Lord knew not’.


	3. Fulfilling A Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt used for this part:

He was exhausted.  
  
But then, he tried to remember a time when he hadn’t been and that was difficult. For a man not that long past his twenty-fourth birthday, he thought sourly, he spent a ridiculous amount of time swamped in ennui, forcing himself through the motions of each day.  _Feeling heartily sorry for himself,_ his best friend would provide with a sniff. But she’d always been a cruel, unblinking mirror, held up before his face to reflect his failures; a snotty brat at three, a terrible tease at seven, a vicious harpy at seventeen, Pansy and her unflinching assessment of his personal shortcomings were as much a part of his life as his blond hair and his unfortunate pedigree. Which was perhaps why he’d yet to inform her that he was back in town, but after the poorly timed run-in with Ms. Granger, (Granger-Weasley, he reminded himself sourly; he’d gone to the bloody wedding) he fully expected a howler to arrive at any moment. Oh, joy and rapture; something else to look forward to.  
  
He removed his ankle length dove grey overcoat and hat and threw them onto the damask covered chaise that sat facing the fireplace in his private rooms at the Manor. Removing the holly wand from the harness secreted inside the sleeve of the heavy black jumper, he pointed it towards the logs already laid on the hearth and whispered ‘ _Incendio’_ , returning it when flames immediately began to lick at the perfectly seasoned wood. Some things had changed since he’d left his mother’s roof at eighteen, but not the almost military efficiency with which things were done. The house was spotless, his rooms just as he’d left them; the clothes in his closets still hung in the same places, the shoulders magically altered to accept the new breadth of his frame. He’d never be bulky, but he was a man now, no longer a boy, and his body reflected that. His boots were still shining, even his jewelry case was as he’d left it; it was almost as if he’d gone out for coffee and returned an hour later, rather than six years. It was disconcerting, that. He’d lived an entire other life in the course of those six years.  
  
He walked to the windows that looked out over the Manor’s expansive grounds, staring at the pristine blanket of white that covered the box wood hedges, paths and yews, his arms wrapped around his slender middle. The bloody mausoleum of a house was freezing, he thought with a downward tilt of his full lips; all the fucking marble. But that wasn’t really true. It hadn’t felt cold before the year he’d been seventeen, and it hadn’t felt warm since. He doubted that it ever would again. There was too much embedded in the walls; too much pain, too much horror. His mother had offered to let him make whatever changes he’d wanted to, but all he’d wanted was to be away...  
  
His lips twisted wryly. And now, he was back. Home the conquering hero, he mused with a grimace. Only, not so much the hero; someone else had deftly managed that role. Just thinking it made him wince, and he turned away from the view with an angry huff.  
  
He didn’t want to be here, and his mother knew it. If there was a single way that he would have been able to refuse… But even as he thought it, he was crossing to his bed and sitting on the edge heavily, reaching for one of the few things he’d brought back with him. His hand gentled unconsciously as he picked up the small framed photograph from the bedside table.  
  
It showed a little boy in a bright red snowsuit with bears embroidered on the front, small hands encased in navy blue mittens, small head covered in a matching hat. His lips and nose and cheeks were chapped and bright from the cold. He was reaching out to touch the hat on the top of a small snowman with coal eyes and a celery nose, then turning to look at the camera with a shy smile. He’d been two and a half when the photo had been taken, and even now he could remember snapping it, then laughing when the dark-haired man had made the little snowman dance, and the small boy had clapped his hands in glee. Everything had been perfect that winter; he’d been young, and in love, and that little boy had seemed to embody so much promise for the future…  
  
He blew out a weighted breath and flopped back onto the silver duvet, his eyes on the dark blue velvet canopy above the bed, the picture on his chest.  
  
He’d loved Theodore Remus Lupin fiercely from the moment his Aunt Andromeda had placed him, just under a month old, into his arms.  
  
“We need to leave everything behind us, Draco,” she’d said, her dark eyes sharp, aware of his trembling. “It no longer matters whose side we were on. He needs us; all of us. We are the only family he has left.” He’d glanced up to find his mother watching him, her eyes as solemn as he could ever remember. “His godfather is a good man, but he was raised by Muggles; much as I loved Ted, there were things that he never understood about our culture, our heritage. You are the only male of his line left; your father will be in prison until he’s in his teens, and Lucius…” She’d paused meaningfully. “Lucius is unsuitable, and not a blood relative. It’s going to be your job to teach him the things he needs to know. I want you to promise me that you won’t let him down.”  
  
“I promise, Auntie,” he’d murmured, looking down into the perfect little face. And he’d meant it, with all of his heart.  
  
When he’d received the owl the week before, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Teddy was seven; he’d sent a birthday gift from Stockholm, just as he did every year, from wherever he was. He knew what this particular birthday had meant. He’d just allowed himself to drift along, living from one day to the next, ignoring where he’d come from, what he’d left behind because thinking about it had simply been too hard… And then there had been that ruddy owl.  
  


> _Draco, it’s time. You need to come home. Andromeda_

  
  
He exhaled heavily, his hands coming up to rub his eyes. He’d promised, and so he’d come back. And he’d brought all of his emotional baggage with him. He let his hands drop next to his head, palm up, and curled his lips.  
  
“Fuck,” he murmured. Knowing no one could hear, he repeated it, louder. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He clenched one hand into a fist and brought it down to strike the bed near his hip, but it was ineffective in expressing his dismay.  
  
Yes, he was back. And he’d do what he had promised, knowing that the coming solstice was a milestone in a young wizard’s life. And he’d meet with his Aunt, the boy’s legal guardian, and his mother, the boy’s godmother, and…  
  
His godfather.  
  
Draco closed his eyes.  
  
“Fuck.”


	4. Those You Can't Hide From

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt used for this part:

Draco moved briskly down the walk, his gloved hands thrust into his pockets and his head lowered, the cold bringing color to his cheeks where none would otherwise exist. The snow that had dusted the streets the day before had melted but the bite in the air told more surely than any forecast that there was more lurking in the dark clouds hanging overhead.

The Howler he’d expected from Pansy had not arrived. Instead, there had been an almost painfully polite request, penned on aged parchment and delivered via her mother’s elegant owl. She asked that he meet her for coffee. He’d almost declined; he wasn’t here to socialize, and he didn’t want to see anyone. But then he’d looked at the way she signed her name, the small flourish at the top of the ‘y’, and he couldn’t do it. He and Pansy had played in the same enchanted playpen together, they’d made mud pies in the Manor’s gardens, they’d tied fire crackers to the peacock’s tails. She was more sister than friend, and he found he couldn’t simply blow her off. They’d been through too much, she knew him too well. And truth be told, he’d missed her. Fiercely. And so he’d replied that he would meet with her as long as it was not a Wizarding establishment, and she’d sent back the address of a small shop near Harrods Department Store; they’d had coffee there once before, when they’d ventured into Muggle London to shop, (and ridicule, as he remembered with a wry twist of his lips. They’d been horrid, entitled brats.) He’d Apparated from Surrey to an alley just outside of The Leaky Cauldron, then hurried away before anyone could recognize him, his hat pulled down low over his face. After seeing Granger, of all people, he’d vowed not to go back to the wizard shopping district again. No sense inviting disaster.

He entered the shop, the bell over the door jingling merrily, and lifted his head as he inhaled. The fragrances of coffee and something yeasty baking were soothing and the warmth brushed his face, but he still felt as if his nerve endings had all been inflamed with some sort of central nervous system hex. He felt jittery, on edge, and wondered again if perhaps he shouldn’t have used a Glamour; the last thing he wanted was to see anyone he knew, other than Pansy. Or, more in point of fact, for anyone to see him. When he didn’t spot her immediately, he almost turned to go, but then someone near the back stood slowly, and he stiffened.

She looked…different. Her hair was darker, very short, almost pixie-ish, and her face more slender. Her features, always faintly pugnacious, had morphed into beauty, and she was wearing a lovely winter white coat over dark slacks, a berry colored cashmere scarf around her throat. She’d grown up while he’d been gone, he realized, but then reminded himself that the last time he’d seen her she’d just had her twentieth birthday, and now she was twenty four. Her brown eyes, always her best feature, were wide as they stared at him, and he felt something catch in his chest when he saw them fill with tears. Without even realizing he was doing it he navigated around the other tables and went to her, and when she threw her arms around his neck and held on so tight it almost hurt, he returned her embrace.

“I’m livid at you,” she finally sniffed into the front of his coat, her voice muffled, her hands dropping to grip the wool covering his arms.

“I know,” he said into her hair. “I don’t blame you.”

She leaned back and looked up into his face, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You bastard,” she murmured, but her trembling lips curved up at the corners. “If I wasn’t so bloody glad to see you, I’d murder you.”

He felt a slight smile tug at his lips. “I believe you.”

She stepped back, gesturing almost shyly toward the table. “I ordered you a mocha,” she said. “I remember that you liked them.”

He glanced at the tall clear glass coffee mug that sat on a white ceramic plate, a spoon resting at its base. The soft cocoa colored beverage was topped with whipped cream, and what looked like a sprinkling of chocolate, and Draco allowed himself a small smile.

“You know how I love whipped cream,” he said, removing his gloves. She smiled fondly in return.

“I do.”

He held her chair out for her and she sat, then he moved around the table and took the one opposite, taking off his woolen hat and laying both that and his gloves on the table top. His hair spilled over his brows, and before he could reach up to tame it with his fingers, she reached forward and did it for him. He went still as her fingers skimmed his face, then cupped his cheek.

“Your hair is longer,” she mused. He felt himself color as he nodded.

“And yours is shorter,” he teased. “I like it.” She smiled faintly.

“I’ve missed you, so,” she whispered, her eyes brimming anew.

“I’ve missed you, too.” He covered her hand with his, and turned his lips into her palm.

“You knew where I lived,” she said, pulling her hand away, clearly fighting to keep the bite from her words. “The address hasn’t changed.”

“Pansy,” he murmured, shaking his head once. “Please, don’t.”

She inhaled through her nose and looked away. “I just don’t understand, Draco,” she said finally. “Everything seemed to be going so well. You were happy.” Her eyes came back to his.

“No one can ever really know how someone else is feeling,” he said faintly, looking down at his drink. He picked up the spoon, irritated to see that his hand was trembling. He set it down again, and it clinked against the glass. He looked up when her hand curled around his wrist.

“You were happy,” she repeated, her eyes boring into his. “I’ve known you for the whole of your life, and you were finally, honestly happy.” Her eyes narrowed. “Which, you clearly are not now. You look awful.”

He grimaced. “Thanks ever so,” he said dryly.

“You look… tired,” she went on, undeterred by his tone. “And sad. Almost as sad as Potter looked the last time I saw him.”

He flinched before he could help himself. “Pansy, please. Just… don’t.”

She stared at him, her eyes assessing his face feature by feature. “You know, I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going to cross-examine you. I was just so glad to know that you were back I was willing to let it all go. And I thought you must have had your reasons for just disappearing; maybe he wasn’t as good to you, as good for you, as it appeared. But Draco, you look dreadful. And when you left,” she paused, shaking her head slowly, “it all but killed him. How could you do that? I was never a great fan of Potter’s, you know that. But the two of you were good together. How could you do that to him?”

He looked away, his jaw hardening as he clenched his teeth. “You don’t understand,” he said finally, his voice small.

“Oh, I think I understand more than you want me to.”

He looked back at the steel that was threaded through her tone.

“Who was it, Draco?” she went on insistently, her tone hard. “Who was it? And what in Hades did they say to make you leave?”

Draco stared at her, his heart sinking. This had been a mistake.


	5. Near Misses and Ultimatums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt used for this part:

It had begun to snow again. Harry moved from one of the mid-town Apparition points, an alley not far from Harrods, and walked through the wet, slushy covering of white. A taxi whizzed by on the street, its tires throwing up large wet clumps of mud that splattered a row of Muggle Vespas that were parked at the curb. Harry stepped back quickly, protected from the deluge by a red telephone booth, then hurried on his way again. He’d had an owl from Andromeda asking him to come to Grimmauld, and while he wasn’t necessarily the most intuitive of people (something he’d been taunted about rather unmercifully during his one long term relationship) he was fairly certain that this meeting had something to do with the fact that Malfoy was back.  
  
Malfoy… he didn’t dare start thinking of him as Draco. Draco was the man he’d loved, the man he’d opened up to, shared everything with, believed he’d be with forever. Malfoy was the creature who had bedeviled him for most of his school days, was a cruel tease, a hateful tormentor. Draco never would have left him without a word, but Malfoy? Oh yes, that was something Malfoy would have done, if only to be able to laugh at him, chide him for what a fool he’d been. After weeks of looking for him, and months of grieving, Harry had come to the conclusion that Malfoy had finally bested him, in the cruelest way possible. It was the only thing that made any sense.  
  
He was so preoccupied that he hardly noticed the back of the man in the phone booth on the left, and he didn’t even look up as he hurried past, his head down. He was anxious to hear what Andromeda had to say…  
  
  
Draco clutched at the telephone inside of the red box, it being the only thing that kept him from crumpling to the filthy floor.  
  
His knees had quite deserted him when he’d seen Harry step out from between the buildings half a block down, his dark hair blowing in the wind, his hands jammed into the pockets of his long black wool coat; the very coat that Draco had given him on their last Christmas. He’d gone rigid with panic, then seen the telephone booths and jumped into the one on the left, turning his back, grabbing the phone like a lifeline and holding on, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered. He stood that way until he heard footsteps hurry past, and he looked over his shoulder to watch Harry trudge away.  
  
His shoulders were broader, he thought faintly, Draco’s hand lifting, trembling, to press against the glass. His hair was longer, too. And he moved with such unquestioned authority…  
  
After spending an hour and a half evading Pansy’s increasingly prying questions, he’d felt decidedly shaky when he’d left the coffee shop to walk back to the Apparition point. And now, he’d barely managed to evade the last person in London he wanted to come face to face with. He knew it was inevitable, but he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be.  
  
He stepped out of the phone booth when Harry was about a block away, and watched him as he moved further and further away. His shoulders really were so very broad now…  
  
  
Hermione Granger-Weasley stood at the entryway to the alley Apparition point, staring up the street. She’d arrived with Harry; he turned to the left to go to Grimmauld Place, she was going to go to the right toward the Leaky Cauldron. She’d paused in the alley to check her purse to make certain she hadn’t forgotten her shopping list, and Harry had gone on ahead, anxious to get to his meeting with Andromeda. Hermione, stepping out behind him, had seen the slender man in the grey coat jump into the phone booth, and unlike Harry, she’d recognized him. She had taken a step forward to call out; her mouth had even been open. But she’d seen the panic in the wide grey eyes, seen him throw himself into the booth, seen him turn his head away so as not to be spotted.  
  
And she saw him now, step out of the phone booth, his gloved hand tight around the door as he watched her best friend walk away. She could see his face quite clearly in profile, and the grief and the longing stamped across the handsome features cut Hermione to the quick. Frowning, she turned away before he could see her, walking toward her destination, but her mind was on what she’d seen. She glanced back when she reached the corner, but both of the men were gone. A thoughtful crease between her brows, she continued on her way.  
  
  
“Would you care for more?”  
  
Harry sat on the worn settee in the drawing room at Grimmauld Place, a half empty dainty china cup near his elbow, part of a blueberry scone on the saucer. It had tasted like chalk in his mouth, and he’d abandoned any attempt to finish it. “No, thank you,” he said politely. “I’m fine.”  
  
Narcissa Malfoy nodded and set the lovely bone china teapot back on the tray in front of her, sitting back and folding her hands in her lap, the picture of serenity.  
  
Harry wished he felt the same. He’d felt left-footed ever since Malfoy’s mother had answered the door instead of her sister.  
  
He shouldn’t have been surprised, he supposed. Remus and Tonks had named Harry as Teddy’s godfather, but they’d not had time to decide on a godmother before they were killed. Once the Black sisters had been reunited, Andromeda, as Teddy’s legal guardian, had the right to name a godmother, and she’d selected her sister. Harry, already involved with her son, had thought Narcissa a perfect choice at the time. He’d questioned the decision since, but wisely kept his opinions to himself. He knew that even after Draco disappeared, his mother and aunt remained close, and he had no desire to alienate Andromeda. He adored Teddy; questioning his grandmother’s decisions wasn’t the best way to stay in her good graces. He’d gifted her with Grimmauld Place, her family’s ancestral home, not just because he’d thought it was the right thing to do, but because he wanted her to know that he was serious in his dedication to Teddy. She’d transformed the old place utterly; the room they sat in now was lovely and warm, even though Harry felt chilled. He knew it had nothing to do with the temperature.  
  
“Thank you for coming, Harry.” Andromeda settled on the chaise next to her sister, setting her cup aside. Apparently, the pleasantries had been observed and now they were to get to the crux of the meeting. Harry straightened slightly where he sat.  
  
“Of course,” he said.  
  
Andromeda paused, as if collecting herself. “Given that the Wizarding world is a relatively small one, and that very little can happen without everyone knowing about it,” she pursed her lips wryly, “I’m quite certain that you must have already heard that my nephew is back.”  
  
Narcissa Malfoy looked down at her hands. Harry hesitated, then nodded.  
  
“I had heard,” he admitted, trying to keep his voice neutral.  
  
“Draco has returned because I asked him to.” Andromeda’s tone was mild, but her expression was direct. She stared into Harry’s eyes, her chin lifted. “Teddy is seven this year, and that is a very important milestone in a young wizard’s life.”  
  
Harry frowned slightly. “I don’t…”  
  
“I know,” she said, not unkindly. “Your relatives would not have known. But all years which include the number seven are magically significant. Seven, seventeen, twenty-seven; each of those years are important. At twenty-seven, a wizard comes into the fullness of his powers; traditionally, he is considered mature enough, settled enough, to be named a Mage. At seventeen, he attains legal adulthood. At seven, he begins his formal magical training. And that includes a course of study in the old ways. I began his education with the summer solstice, with the trip we made to Stonehenge, but for the winter solstice,” she paused, “I felt it necessary for the male head of Teddy’s family to further his education. As a wizard, he can teach Teddy the lessons that his father taught him. And so I asked Draco to return.”  
  
Harry had stiffened. “I’m not sure I want Teddy learning the lessons Malfoy’s father taught him,” he said through clenched teeth. Narcissa went rigid, her eyes lifting.  
  
“Mr. Potter,” she said, her voice careful, contained, but irritation flashing in her eyes, “we are not referring to whatever…unfortunate political decisions Draco’s father made.” Harry snorted, and Andromeda sent him a quelling look. “Whatever you may think of my husband, he taught Draco his heritage.”  
  
“His pure-blood heritage,” Harry countered.  
  
“His magical heritage,” she retorted. “Solstice is an important celebration in the magical world; it is at the heart of our magical beliefs. It is an ancient holiday, celebrated long before the current connotations took hold, and he needs to understand it.”  
  
Harry’s jaw felt tight. “I manage to be a wizard without knowing any of your ‘old ways’.”  
  
“I daresay you’d be a better one if you did,” Andromeda snapped. “Believe me, Harry, when I say that understanding ones heritage is important, and that your father would have taught you, as his father taught him, had he lived.” Harry stiffened, and she sighed when she saw the stricken look on his face. “I did not bring you here to argue with you, Harry, or to hurt you. I am far too fond of you for that. But it is important that you understand, and that you…” she hesitated. “I know that Draco’s presence here might be…difficult. I don’t know what happened between you—“  
  
“Neither do I,” Harry muttered. Narcissa looked away quickly.  
  
“—but as the remaining male member of the Black family, Draco is the person who needs to guide Teddy through the next phase of his education.” She linked her hands in her lap, her eyes unwavering. “And I expect, that while you might have issues with his presence, you will respect my decisions enough to at least be civil to him.”  
  
Harry sent her a baleful look. “I won’t be anywhere near him,” he said flatly, and both women began to speak. He held up his hand. “I will not interfere. But I also won’t be around. The solstice is on the twenty-first; I should still be able to see Teddy for Christmas. It will be fine. For the rest? I’ll just stay away. That way, there shouldn’t be any problem.”  
  
Andromeda frowned slightly. “You don’t understand, Harry,” she said carefully. “As Teddy’s godfather, you need to be involved in this as well. Your role makes it necessary for you to attend at least three of the celebrations.”  
  
Harry felt as if his heart were caught in a fist. He adored Teddy, but… “And if I refuse?”  
  
She angled her chin arrogantly, and for an unsettling moment she looked so much like the missing Black sister that Harry felt a chill run the length of his spine. “I would not want to do it,” she said, her voice firm, “but as his legal guardian, it would be within my rights to challenge your role as godfather.” Harry gaped.  
  
“But, his parents…”  
  
“I know,” Andromeda said. “And I have never once questioned their choice. You’re a good man, Harry, and you love him with all of your heart. But if you refuse to be involved with his magical education, then you leave me little choice. And believe me, the Wizengamot will not look kindly on a wizard who does not take his magical role as Godfather seriously.”  
  
Harry stared at her, his heart sinking. He knew nothing about any of this; he hadn’t even known about Sirius until he was thirteen, and the man had been dead by the time he was fifteen. Plus, there’d been a war on; there hadn’t been time to discuss the niceties of Wizarding tradition.  
  
Harry stared at her, and her unflinching expression, and knew that she wasn’t bluffing. Either he participated in whatever celebrations she deemed necessary, or she would legally challenge his role as Teddy’s godfather, and he simply couldn’t allow that to happen. He took a deep breath, even though he felt his stomach clench, and nodded slowly.  
  
“I understand,” he murmured. “And I’ll do whatever you think is necessary for Teddy’s education.”  
  
Andromeda’s face softened into kindness. “Thank you, Harry. Teddy will be so pleased. More tea?”  
  
This time, he accepted, hoping it would help to thaw some of the chill that had taken up residence around his heart.  
  
He had to see Draco now, whether he liked it or not.


	6. Shopping or Drinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt used for this part:

“How about this one?”  
  
Harry turned in the aisle and saw Ginny holding up a white sweatshirt, a mischievous smile on her pretty face.  _Now we don our gay apparel_  was written on it in red and green letters, and he sent her a scowl.  
  
“Oh, you’re hilarious,” he grumbled, turning back to sift through a pile of jumpers on a clearance table. He felt her come up to his side.  
  
“Of course I am,” she said brightly. “I developed a refined sense of humor, growing up with the twins around. And these are dreadful, Harry. You might as well wear one of Mum’s.”  
  
He shot her another look. “What would you suggest, then?”  
  
“I’d suggest you stop being so  _cheap_ ,” she muttered. “Gods, you act as if you hadn’t any Galleons at all. I know that those hideous relatives of yours probably stunted your knowledge of fashion, but for a gay man, you have literally no style.”  
  
He turned and glared at her. “I’m not shopping for myself, Gin. I’m shopping for your brother.”  
  
“Oh!” She picked up a bright orange jumper. “Get this one. And I won’t tell him that you bought it from the clearance bin. Of course, Hermione won’t let him wear it.”  
  
He looked at the jumper, then shook his head and tossed it away. “I’m not in the mood for this,” he said tightly. “I should just go home.”  
  
“Oh, nonsense,” Ginny said, slipping her arm through his. “You have to shop at some point; might as well be when you have my sparkling company.” He looked at her from beneath his brows, and she gave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. No shopping then. How about drinking?” She batted her long lashes at him. “I bet we can find a corner table at the Leaky.”  
  
He looked at her for another long moment, then nodded in grudging agreement.  
  
They were, in fact, able to find a corner table in the Leaky Cauldron, and Harry held up two fingers to Tom the bartender before sliding into the dimly lit booth behind Ginny. Even in the murky shadows, her chin length hair shone in the flickering candlelight. Moments later a tray levitated to them, and two tall glasses of amber liquid floated to settle on the table in front of them. “Run a tab,” Harry said to the tray, and it flipped over and floated away.  
  
“Planning to get pissed?” Ginny asked, lifting her glass and taking a drink.  
  
“Possibly,” Harry muttered, taking a drink as well. The beer tasted hearty and yeasty. He set the glass down and eyed Ginny wryly. “And you and Hermione don’t have to watch me every moment. I’m not planning to off myself.”  
  
Ginny rolled her eyes. “No one thinks that,” she countered. “We just know you, Harry. And when left to your own devices, you tend to get all broody and morbid.”  
  
He frowned at her. “I do not.”  
  
“Yes, you do.” She sent him a level look. “Particularly when Malfoy is part of the equation.”  
  
He flinched when she said his name, then tried to cover by running his hand through his hair, but she wasn’t fooled. She never had been. Ginny had known he was gay even before he was sure of it. The fact that they were closer now than they had been when they were dating was a testament to her tenacity, and tolerance.  
  
“Harry.” She reached across the table and put her hand on his arm. “It will be all right. You can handle this.”  
  
“I know I can handle it,” he said, more waspishly than he’d intended. He sighed and ran his hand over his jaw, finding it roughened with five o’clock shadow. He’d forgotten to shave that morning, proving how preoccupied he was. “It’s not… him, exactly,” he said more softly. “It’s Andromeda’s ultimatum.” He looked down at the table and fiddled with a coaster. “After all I’ve done for them…”  
  
“I know it sounds harsh,” Ginny said. “But she’s right, about this being important for Teddy.” He looked up at her when she tugged on his sleeve. “She is, Harry. You didn’t get to experience your Heptagon Winter Solstice,” she went on, leaning closer. “It’s the first time you really participate in magic, Harry. It’s when you begin to understand who we are, as magical people, and who came before, what our traditions mean. I don’t believe for one moment that Andromeda would actually go to the Wizengamot.” She squeezed his forearm. “As Teddy’s godfather, you need to be there, but you can’t officiate, Harry. You’ve never seen the rituals yourself.”  
  
Harry frowned. “Rituals? I don’t think I like the sound of that.”  
  
She giggled and took another drink of her beer. “Oh, relax. There’s no blood involved, and no one gets naked. Although—“ she pretended to look thoughtful, “—I never did get to see you starkers, so maybe I should have lied and told you to let me have a look first, just to be sure you haven’t gone to flab.”  
  
There was a bowl of peanuts on the table, and he threw one at her when she laughed at his expression. He finished his beer in a long drink, then held up his hand to get Tom’s attention, pointing at the table. Tom nodded.  
  
Harry hadn’t eaten anything since a stale muffin at breakfast, and the beer felt substantial and soothing in his empty stomach. Warmth began to steal through him, and some of the tension that had resided in his shoulders all day started to ease.  
  
“Clearly,” Ginny said, eyeing his glass, “if I’m going to keep up, I need to get to it.”  
  
Four beers later, (Ginny had stalled on her third), Harry was feeling much more relaxed, but also faintly melancholy. He’d been holding the emotion off for the four days that he’d known Draco was back with a healthy bulwark of anger. The alcohol chipped into that, and some of the despair that had haunted him on and off for four years slipped into his chest. If only he could understand what had happened…  
  
“I’m going to tell you something,” Ginny said with exaggerated care, taking his hand. She’d always been a bit of a light weight, and Harry looked up at her indulgently.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
She stared into his eyes, looking surprisingly sober. “I don’t think he left of his own accord.”  
  
Harry blinked. “What?”  
  
“Draco. I don’t think he left because he was unhappy, or it was something you did, or any one of the four thousand other reasons you gave yourself when he disappeared.”  
  
Harry frowned. “Ginny, what are you on about?”  
  
She glanced around, then brought her eyes back to his. “Harry, he loved you,” she said softly, but emphatically. “I know it. I saw him the day before; he was shopping for groceries, planning to make your favorite dinner. He had flowers for the table in his hand. He looked so happy…”  
  
He shook his head. “I know all of this, Gin. The flowers were in a vase, the groceries in the frig. I  _know_ …” He’d been so sure Draco would be back. The flowers had died in the vase and the groceries had gone moldy while he’d waited, unwilling to throw them out…  
  
She shook her head, her hair swinging. “I don’t think you do,” she said, her eyes intense. “And I’m not sure you looked in the right places, after he was gone.”  
  
His mouth fell open. “Ginny, I looked  _everywhere_. I went to all of our friends, all of  _his_  friends. Even Pansy had no idea where in the hell he was. I scoured missing persons reports for weeks. I went everywhere we’d ever been, every placed he’d even talked about. I even went to his mother, and to his aunt, who both pretty clearly lied to me about knowing where he was, since they were able to get him to come back…” He felt anger begin to push the depression away, and he clung to it. Anything was better than that black hole he’d found himself in before…  
  
“Harry, of course he told his mother where he was,” she said. “After everything Narcissa had already been through, can you imagine him allowing her to think he might be dead?”  
  
Harry scowled, but finally shook his head. “No,” he muttered. “He might let me think that, but not his mother.”  
  
“He didn’t let you think he was dead,” she said, almost scolding.  
  
“No,” he said darkly, staring at the table. “He left that fucking note instead.”  
  
He’d never forget it as long as he lived. He’d read it a thousand times, handled it so often that it was black around the edges from his fingers.  
  


> _I have to go. I’m sorry._

  
  
“Have you paid attention to what it said?” Ginny asked. He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.  
  
“Have I paid attention to it?” he repeated incredulously. “Have I paid attention to it? I’ve had those six fucking words repeating themselves in my head endlessly for four bloody years.”  
  
“I don’t think you have,” she said, sitting back, her chin lifted. His mouth dropped open in outrage. “Oh, I know that you’ve read it over and over again. And that you’ve tried to figure out what you did wrong that could have made him leave like that. What did you say? What did you do? Or, what didn’t you do?” He closed his mouth and swallowed heavily, looking away. Sometimes it was uncomfortable, having friends who could read him so well. He looked back when she leaned forward and grabbed his arm again. An intent gleam had entered her eyes. “I’ve thought something for a long time, but Ron and Hermione told me I was just going to make things worse, and that I should leave it alone.”  
  
Harry stared, intrigued in spite of himself. “What? You’ve thought what?”  
  
“ _I have to go_ ,” she said slowly, emphatically. “ _I’m sorry._  Not I want to go, not you’re a giant wanker, not I hate you. I  _have_  to go, I’m sorry.” She angled her head thoughtfully. “I think, if I were you, instead of working myself up into a right snit and trying to avoid being in the same room with him,” she paused, “I’d be backing him into a corner and making him tell me what it was, or  _who_  it was, that made him leave to begin with.”  
  
She sat back with a searching look on her face and picked up her beer, taking a sip.  
  
And Harry stared, his heart beginning to pound, wondering why he’d never thought of that himself.


	7. Merry Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this part:

Harry had received the owl that morning, early, well before the sun had risen. So early that he was still in bed, unconscious thanks in no small part to the four beers he’d had with Ginny. And the sleepless hours after that he’d sat in the dark in his sitting room, staring into nothing, reliving that last week, over and over again.  
  
“ _I have to go,”_  Ginny had repeated the contents of Draco’s note emphatically.  _“I’m sorry. Not **I want to go** , not you’re a giant wanker, not I hate you. I have to go, I’m sorry. I think, if I were you, instead of working myself up into a right snit and trying to avoid being in the same room with him, I’d be backing him into a corner and making him tell me what it was, or who it was, that made him leave to begin with.”_  
  
He thought he’d covered every option in his mind, but in retrospect he could see that he’d done exactly what Ginny had said he’d done; on reading that note, he’d immediately assumed it had been about him, that he’d done or said something to drive Draco away. He knew that Hermione would have some long, involved explanation about him not believing he was worthy of love because of what the Dursleys had done to him, that he was convinced that somehow he deserved to be abandoned, but Harry wasn’t sure it was true. He just knew that the fact Draco loved him always seemed like something out of someone else’s life, so that when it was over, rather than search for an explanation involving someone else, Harry had automatically assumed the failure was his. But now—he didn’t know anymore.  
  
The last week before everything fell apart had seemed so…normal. He’d gone to work, Draco had spent his days at the Manor in his lab. He’d been working on a stronger version of wolfsbane serum for testing at St. Mungo’s; Greyback was dead, but many of his ‘offspring’ were still at large, and none of them deserved their fate. Harry thought that he was so dedicated to it because of Teddy; he wanted to be able to remove the stain of lycanthropy before the child was old enough to understand what it meant, what his father had been. He’d been working long hours, and in retrospect, he’d seemed a bit ‘odd’ a few days before.  
  
_Harry had been late getting home from a particularly obnoxious training session, and Draco had been sitting at their kitchen table, a glass of wine in front of him. He’d looked up when Harry came through the door, and he’d been so pale…_  
  
“Long day?” he asked brusquely, taking a drink of the red wine.  
  
“Training session,” Harry answered, taking a glass from the cupboard and pouring some wine for himself. “Out in Derbyshire. Mock hostage situation.”  
  
Draco knuckles whitened around the glass. “Derbyshire,” he repeated faintly.  
  
“Yeah. Apparently we were going to be in Cheapside, but there was a last minute change of plans…”  
  
Looking back on it, Harry realized that Draco seemed shaken by that. He’d gotten up and gone to bed soon after without eating, saying he was simply ‘too tired’. When Harry had joined him, he’d been sound asleep, leading Harry to believe what he’d said was true; he was exhausted. The next day, he’d been fine. He’d gone for groceries, bought flowers…and disappeared.  
  
Harry had finally gone to bed just after three, no closer than he’d ever been to figuring out what happened, but convinced now that Ginny was right; there had been something. When the owl tapped at the bedroom window at just after six, he cursed colorfully as he stumbled across the room, let it in, and took the rolled parchment from its leg. It was Andromeda’s bird, Ulysses, and Harry fed him a treat from a plate he kept near the window, (still filled with what had been Hedwig’s favorites, even all these years later) then closed the window behind him as he flew away. Going back to his bed and muttering a sleepy  _Lumos_  when he’d retrieved the wand from the bedside table, he pointed it at the scroll and squinted to read it.  
  


> _Harry,_
> 
> Please join us tonight for Teddy’s first Solstice lesson, ‘Honoring the Light’. It will begin at eight. Please dress warmly.
> 
> Andromeda

  
  
He read it twice, then rolled his eyes before slipping on his glasses to read it again. “Fucking marvelous,” he muttered. “Bloody fucking marvelous.”  
  
  
oooOOOooo  
  
  
It was cold, and their breath made small clouds of condensation on the frigid air. It was full dark, and the four of them might have made an odd picture to the other occupants of Grimmauld Place, had they bothered to look out of their windows. Draco and Teddy were wearing heavy Muggle winter clothing; coats, hats, heavy trousers and gloves, but Andromeda and Narcissa were wearing velvet robes, Andromeda’s claret red and Narcissa’s dove grey. They looked lovely with their long hair hanging to their waists, their hands inside fur muffs, but they also looked faintly like something out of a Victorian Christmas card. The ghosts of Christmas past and future, Draco thought sardonically, floating wraithlike over the wet snow. The thought dissipated like their breath in the cold night air when Teddy squeezed his hand, getting his attention, then smiled up at him, his eyes nearly as bright as his pink hair. Unable to help himself, Draco returned the smile.  
  
He’d been afraid that Teddy wouldn’t remember him at all, but he needn’t have worried. When he saw him, Teddy had run and thrown himself around Draco’s knees, hanging on for dear life.  
  
“You’re back!” He squealed. “You’re back, you’re back!”  
  
“Yes, I’m back,” Draco laughed, bending to hug the little boy. He gripped Draco’s neck hard, and smelled of peppermint and something musty like a puppy, the essence of small boy.  
  
“Where did you go?” Teddy leaned back, wide blue eyes guileless in his freckled face. “I missed you!”  
  
He’d ruffled the rapidly changing hair, a lump rising unbidden to his throat. “And I missed you, too, brat.” Teddy’s smile had been like the sun coming out from behind a cloud; for some reason, being called ‘brat’ by his cousin had always made him smile, even when he’d been a baby. Draco pretended not to hear him when he asked again, a few minutes later, where he’d been. They waited until nearly ten after eight before Andromeda had led the small procession to the door; Draco knew they’d been waiting on Potter, and was torn between relief and despair when he didn’t turn up.  
  
Now they walked to the center of the small square directly across the street from number twelve and turned. Andromeda waved her wand, casting disillusionment spells on the four of them, and a moment later Narcissa waved hers, and several lit candles appeared and floated in mid-air. Draco turned to Teddy and took both of his hands, holding them.  
  
“Ted,” he said softly. “Do you know what we celebrate in December?”  
  
“Christmas!” The child answered brightly, and Draco allowed himself to smile.  
  
“Yes. Do you know what else we celebrate?”  
  
“Winner Solice,” he chirped. Draco’s smiled widened.  
  
“Winter Solstice,” he corrected gently. “Do you know what it is?”  
  
Teddy screwed his face up, clearly trying to remember what he’d been told. “It’s the shortest day of the year, when it’s dark the longest.”  
  
Draco nodded. “That’s right. Do you know why that’s important to a wizard?”  
  
Teddy frowned, and looked at his grandmother. “Did you tell me, Nana?”  
  
Andromeda’s face softened. “Not exactly, no.”  
  
The child looked back up at Draco. “No.”  
  
Draco swallowed a chuckle. He’d forgotten how delightful he found his little cousin.  
  
“Listen carefully, Ted,” he said gently, “because what I’m going to tell you now is very, very important. Long, long ago, when witches and wizards worshipped the Goddess who held dominion over all things, each year, on the day with the fewest hours of sunlight, we would gather in covens to celebrate Mother Earth. Can you guess why?”  
  
Teddy bit his lower lip and shook his head slowly. “Because even on the darkest day of the year, the magical people had faith that the sun would return. As wizards, we have always believed that our power, our ability to perform magic, is directly tied to the earth, and to the cycles of the sun and the moon. On the Winter Solstice, we celebrate our belief that the sun, one of the sources of our power, even though we can only see it for a few hours, is still there, just waiting for spring to return to us. Do you know one of the ways we celebrate that belief?”  
  
Teddy shook his head again, his eyes wide.  
  
“We celebrate with light.” Draco withdrew the wand that felt more right in his hand than any had before it, and waved it at the front of Number 12. He heard Teddy gasp, delighted, as rows of colored lights sprang into being around each of the dozens of windows, across the steep roofline, wrapped around the banisters of the wrought iron railings leading up to the front door. Candles burst into brilliant flame in each darkened window, until the entirety of the façade of the old townhouse glowed with light.  
  
Teddy clapped, jumping up and down. He grabbed Draco’s sleeve and tugged, pointing to a few of the other windows that, by comparison, had paltry strings of electric lights around them. “Is that why they have lights, Draco?” he asked, high voice excited. “Are they celebrating the Winner Solice, too?”  
  
Draco laid his hand on Teddy’s head, smiling. “Yes, Ted they are. Even if they don’t know it.”  
  
Between one heartbeat and the next, Draco felt the shift in the air around him as if it were a tangible thing. One moment he was at ease, the next the hair on the back of his neck was lifting, and a chill was slipping the length of his spine. And even before Teddy looked beyond him and shouted, “Harry!” his voice bright with joy, he knew what was different.  _He_  was there.  
  
Teddy ran around him, and Draco turned slowly, his neck and shoulders stiff. Standing just behind his mother and Andromeda, wearing the formal red Aurors robes and the high black boots, his face impassive but his eyes reflecting both the light and heat of the luminescent decorations Draco had draped on the old brownstone, was Harry.  
  
And for a waiting moment, Draco forgot how to breathe.


	8. Lost In His Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt used for this part:
> 
>  

Snow began to fall again, lightly, but Draco scarcely noticed. His eyes were on the man in the red militaristic robes who had only broken eye contact with him to look down at the small boy who was now hanging from his hand.  
  
“Draco’s back,” Teddy said happily, a smile on his small face. “Did you see? He’s back to teach me about the Winner Solsice. We were talking about lights, and he made all the lights on the house. Aren’t they cool?”  
  
Draco stayed very still as Harry touched the child’s head fondly, then looked back up at him. “Very cool,” he said softly, and Draco’s heart began to pound. Was it even remotely possible that Harry didn’t hate him? Gods, if the situation had been reversed, he’d have been reaching for his wand, hexing him into oblivion. But then, of the two of them, Harry had always been kinder, more patient… Draco’s throat thickened.  
  
“Harry, Harry.” Teddy was bouncing on his toes, tugging on Harry’s hand, and he looked back down at him.  
  
“Yes, Ted.”  
  
“Now that Draco is back, can we go to the Godric’s Hollow House? I remember making a snow man there, and it was great! And then we all cuddled under a blanket in front of the fire, and Draco made cocoa. I wanna do that again! Can we?”  
  
Draco tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. He found himself waiting nervously for Harry’s reply.  
  
“I don’t live in the Godric’s Hollow House anymore, Ted,” he said, his deep voice slightly rough. “Remember? I’ve a flat in town.”  
  
Teddy frowned. “But Draco’s back now—you have to get the house back.”  
  
Harry looked as if he wasn’t sure what to say to that. Fortunately, Andromeda stepped into the breach.  
  
“Teddy.” She held out her hand. “Come along, now. Supper is waiting. There’s lamb and potatoes, remember?”  
  
Teddy’s face brightened and he ran to Andromeda to take her hand, skidding happily on the snow. He turned back to his godfather. “Can you stay, Harry, or do you have to work?”  
  
Harry glanced at Draco, then back at the child. “I have to go back to work, Ted. Sorry.”  
  
The little boy shrugged. “I’ll see you Sunday though, right?”  
  
Harry smiled slightly, and Draco’s heart turned over—hard. “Yes, Buddy. I promised. Sunday.”  
  
The little boy smiled. “Yes!”  
  
Andromeda’s face softened as she tucked Teddy’s hand into the fur muff with her own, and started across the street. She paused and looked back at her sister. “Coming, Cissy?”  
  
Narcissa looked at Draco, then at Harry, and bit her lip, clearly uncertain.  
  
“Cissy.” Andromeda said sternly and raised a dark brow at her. “Come inside. It’s cold, and you’ll catch your death.”  
  
Narcissa looked irritated, but she crossed to her sister. “There is such a thing as a warming charm, you know,” she muttered, not particularly quietly.  
  
Andromeda turned to walk toward the house. “Yes, but you’ve never been very good at them.”  
  
“But  _you_  are,” Narcissa whispered furiously, following.  
  
“Well, yes,” Andromeda said imperturbably. “But I’m going inside.”  
  
The whispered argument continued as the two women and the little boy made their way back to the brownstone.  
  
Draco stayed where he was, almost as if his feet had frozen to the ground. His first impulse had been to follow his mother and aunt, but he couldn’t seem to make his body behave his mind. And then he and Harry were alone in the quiet park, the snow drifting down, quiet settling between them. Harry took one step toward him, then another, moving smoothly, his face impassive but his eyes intense. He was stalking towards Draco like some kind of big cat, and Draco dampened his lips with his tongue. That uniform…  
  
The uniform had always done it for him, and Harry, damn him, knew it. It was something about the cut of it, the shoulders padded, (although Harry really didn’t need the padding), the shiny black buttons, the Ministry insignia on his right breast. The long cape that attached at the shoulders and swung out behind him, Snape like, when he walked. And the black trousers tucked into the high black boots…  
  
Suddenly Draco had a very clear recollection of grabbing the thick shoulders as he was backed over their kitchen table, the red wool rough against his skin where his dressing gown fell open. He’d teased Harry that morning, and paid for it—in the most delightful way possible. He remembered the gleaming intent in Harry’s eyes just before he was flipped onto his stomach, face down against the light wood. He recalled the black leather glove sliding up his spine, the roughness of Harry’s trousers against the back of his thighs, the sight of the black boots between his own pale feet, spread wide beneath the table. He’d had trouble sitting down for two days after that, something that had amused Harry enormously. Remembering it now, even as his skin crawled and his breath stalled in his lungs, sent a shaft of want through him. Gods, the stare, the square, shadowed jaw, the look in his green, green eyes—Draco couldn’t have moved if he wanted to.  
  
When Harry was just a couple of feet away, he stopped, and stood silently, waiting. Draco swallowed nervously.  
  
“You don’t live in the house anymore?”  
  
It was an inane thing to say, but Draco’s mouth was operating without input from his head. He cringed when Harry’s eyes grew flinty.  
  
“Didn’t seem much point.”  
  
Inwardly, Draco grimaced. He’d asked for that. He searched wildly for something else to say, and his eyes fell on the insignia over Harry’s heart. There were three small gold stars above the emblem. “You’ve been promoted.”  
  
Harry’s expression turned wry. “I’ve had a lot of time to work on it.”  
  
The most awkward silence of Draco’s life settled between them as the snowfall picked up, and the candles Draco’s mother had conjured flickered, went out and disappeared. The only light left in the small square was that emanating from the decorations on Number Twelve, and it made shadows on Harry’s angular face, reflected in the lenses of his glasses.  
  
Draco swallowed heavily. “Harry, I…”  
  
“Draco?”  
  
Draco clenched his hands into fists of frustration and turned toward the house. His mother was standing on the top step, her fair hair blowing in the slight breeze, her face a mask of concern.  
  
“Darling, are you coming?”  
  
Draco cleared his throat. “I’ll be there shortly, Mother.”  
  
“You should go now.”  
  
Draco turned back, his heart sinking. Harry stared at him for a moment longer, and Draco was startled when he saw the shadow of a smirk at the corner of his lips.  
  
“Your mother isn’t the only one who’s pants at warming charms.”  
  
Draco blinked, and Harry took a step back and disappeared. Draco stared at the spot where he’d been standing, stunned into immobility.  
  


*******

  
  
Dinner had been interminable, especially when all Draco wanted was to be able to get off somewhere by himself. But his mother, and then his aunt and even Teddy, seemed to be in some sort of conspiracy to keep him at Grimmauld Place as long as possible. It had been nearly eleven when he’d finally made his apologies, saying he was simply exhausted, and Floo’d back to the Manor. His mother could come whenever she pleased, but he needed to  _think_.  
  
Was it possible, he wondered as he sat on the edge of his bed, that Harry  _didn’t_  hate him? He’d been so sure that he must despise him; he’d certainly given him reason enough to. The fact that he’d been unable to explain, been forced into secrecy, didn’t ease his conscience a bit. He’d spent months agonizing over it; what must Harry be thinking, doing—it had haunted his dreams and his waking moments.  
  
He analyzed every moment of their exchange tonight in detail; how Harry had looked, (magnificent), how he had seemed, (watchful, careful, but, surprisingly, not angry), the same way he had obsessively analyzed the last day they’d spent together once he’d been gone. He agonized over the flowers on the table, the groceries on the counter—he knew it looked as if he’d been abducted, and he’d wished they’d given him even five minutes more. But they hadn’t; there had been time for little more than to put a few things into a bag and jot that stupid note before…  
  
“There are rules, Mr. Malfoy.”  
  
Draco stiffened, fear making gooseflesh rise on his arms and the back of his neck. He knew that voice; it had haunted him for months after he’d left. He lifted his head and looked around his room fearfully. Where was it coming from?  
  
“There are rules, and you are perilously close to breaking them.”  
  
There, on the mantle, just to the left of several pictures from his youth and nestled amongst the cedar bows that decorated it, was a Nutcracker. It had not been there before, Draco was certain of it, and it eyed him with a frighteningly human expression of disdain on its painted face.  
  
“I’m sorry?” He said, rising to his feet and approaching the fireplace cautiously.  
  
“You were told from the beginning,” the Nutcracker said firmly, “that there was to be no contact with Harry Potter.”  
  
“I know,” Draco said quickly. “But I had no choice in this.”  
  
“You had a choice,” the Nutcracker countered. “There are always choices.”  
  
“Not in this,” Draco retorted a bit desperately. “My cousin is seven this year, and I’m the titular patriarch of the House of Black. There is no one else, and this is his Induction Solstice. I had no choice but to return. And Potter is his godfather; there was no way to avoid him.”  
  
There was a pause as the painted black eyes stared at him. The Nutcracker seemed to muse for several moments.  
  
“Family traditions are important,” it said finally. “Your presence for young Lupin’s investiture is approved. But understand this, Malfoy; you’re being watched. If you forget yourself for even a moment, the agreement is nullified, and you know what will happen then.”  
  
Draco’s mouth went dry and he nodded. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “I haven’t forgotten.”  
  
“Good.” The wooden face seemed to sneer. “Be sure that you don’t.”  
  
With that, there was a pop, and the Nutcracker was gone. Draco’s knees felt weak, and he sat heavily on one of the two white chairs that faced the fireplace, his face in his hands.  
  
As if he could forget.


	9. Season's Greetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt used for this part:

The canned Christmas music at the Ministry was irritating enough that Harry had silenced the speaker on the wall of his cubicle the week before. Unfortunately, others on the Auror floor hadn’t, and so he was treated to Celestina Warbeck and her ‘Hot Cross Buns’ far more often than he liked. It made his in office days more annoying than usual, and he hated them to begin with. Harry had always been more of a man of action; he let his long time partner, Ernie MacMillan, deal with the paper work. But Ernie put his foot down with Harry’s ‘fan mail’, as he put it, and so Harry sat going through a small mountain of mail, a scowl on his face.  
  
His foul mood could probably be attributed to his lack of sleep, he supposed. He’d headed back to a stake-out directly from Grimmauld Place, where he and Ernie sat outside in the cold for hours. They were watching for a suspect that never turned up, unable to use magic because charms were detectable by wizards who knew what to look for—and this one did. So by the time he’d headed home to his Spartan flat at three, he was frozen through, exhausted, and angry. All of this was only compounded by the fact that when he tried to close his eyes, he saw Draco.  
  
He thought he’d prepared himself for the sight of him, but he’d been wrong. Nothing could have made him ready for the visceral punch to solar plexus he experienced the moment he’d seen the slender form in the austere black coat and dark beaver hat. Draco had been talking to Teddy when Harry arrived and hadn’t seen him, so he’d had a few minutes to compose himself, but the sight of him standing there had actually hurt. And then he lifted that wand—  
  
After the defeat of Voldemort, Harry had mended the Holly wand before returning the Elder wand to what he would always think was its rightful owner—he’d certainly wanted no part of it. And the Holly wand had seemed comfortable in his hand, actually happy to be back if one wanted to imbue wands with sentient emotions. It had worked fine for him, and he’d returned the Hawthorne wand to Draco, who had seemed quietly happy to have it back. And then they had begun to see one another. After the first night Draco had spent in his bed, Harry, his vision blurred without his glasses, had reached for his wand in the darkness to cast  _Lumos_  to see what time it was, and the wand in his hand had actually vibrated with power, the spell twice as bright as usual. He’d stared down at it, and been startled to see that he held Draco’s wand in his hand.  
  
The next morning, acting on a hunch, he asked Draco to try a spell with the Holly wand. The result was the same; twice the power, twice the speed. He’d stared down at it in wonder before quietly admitting that the Hawthorne wand hadn’t felt right to him since Harry had returned it. In that moment, in the blush of first love, they’d exchanged wands and it had seemed to Harry almost more personal that exchanging rings. Draco had even joked that now he had control of  _both_  of Harry Potter’s wands.  
  
When he’d disappeared, Draco had taken Harry’s wand with him. After getting over the fear that something dreadful had happened to him, Harry had been furious. He’d even locked the Hawthorne wand in his safe and gone to Ollivander for a new one, but none of the wands they’d tried had been quite right. It was then that Harry knew the truth; the wand picked the wizard, and once the Hawthorne wand had changed its allegiance to Harry, no other wand would do. He’d taken it from the safe and put it in his holster, painfully reminded of what was missing from his life every time he drew it.  
  
The night before, when he’d seen his old wand in Draco’s hand, seen the effortless magic he was able to perform with it, it seemed almost as if that graceful hand were touching a hidden part of him. The part that had longed for him, dreamt of him, never given up on him for the four years that he was gone. When he finally had been able to drift off to sleep, the dreams, which had faded somewhat over time, had been as vivid, and as arousing, as ever. He’d wakened painfully hard and alone, and angry all over again. Why had he left? Why?  
  
In the shower, after taking care of his erection in a perfunctory, emotionless manner, he’d stood with his head bowed, the hot water beating on his tense shoulders, and thought about the look on Draco’s face when he’d turned and their eyes had met for the first time; Harry had been trained to read expressions, and he’d seen both fear and hope in the light eyes. And that gave him pause.  
  
There was no mistaking that Draco had been both happy, and terrified to see him. And it was the fear that made Harry wonder just what it was that he was afraid of. Afraid of him? Draco knew he wouldn’t hurt him; after that horrible day sixth year in the men’s loo, Harry had vowed that it didn’t matter what happened between them, he wouldn’t hurt him again. So what was he afraid of? His reaction, his anger? Maybe. But when Harry had approached him, there had been no mistaking the way he’d unconsciously leaned toward Harry, the way he’d searched his face almost desperately, the longing in his eyes. No, if Draco was afraid, it wasn’t Harry he was afraid of. So what was it? Harry had toweled off and gotten dressed, still pre-occupied with the thought.  
  
And he was again now as he opened Christmas cards and party invites and tossed them all toward the waste bin near his desk. The ones from friends and those he considered family came to his flat; these were from people he didn’t know, and while some of them were just friendly greetings, more were from someone who wanted something. He glanced at them to see if there was anything important, then disposed of them when there wasn’t. One of them, a greeting card in a bright red envelope, drew a scowl.  
  
It was a picture of a muscular young man, nude from the hips up, his thumb dragging down his pants in the middle to reveal just a hint of dark pubic hair, a Santa hat on his head. Inside was hand written;  
  


> _I’ll bet this is what you look like—someday I’d like to find out for myself._

  
  
Harry grimaced and tossed it aside. He recognized the handwriting.  
  
Every since Skeeter had ‘outed’ him in that article about him and Draco, he’d been receiving cards and gifts from whoever it was with that distinctive, carefully penned handwriting. He didn’t really mind it, except recently they’d become more and more personal in nature. Hermione thought that it was decidedly creepy; Harry just figured that they were from some poor gay wizard who had a secret crush, and he could relate. He’d had a secret crush on Draco for years before they’d gotten together. And as long as whoever it was didn’t actually approach him, they were annoying, but Harry assumed harmless. He just wasn’t in the mood for it today.  
  
The card bounced off of the top of his trash bin and slid over toward Ernie’s desk. He bent and picked it up, read the inside, and arched a brow at Harry.  
  
“Nice,” he teased. “Shall I write them back and tell them that it does resemble you a bit with your kit off? Other than the fact that without your glasses you look like a myopic rabbit?” He blinked vapidly, and Harry flipped two fingers at him. Ernie laughed. “Can I take this home to Katie? She might get a kick out of it.”  
  
“Sure you want to do that?” Harry asked wryly. “She might take one look at that and realize what she’s missing out on by being with you.” Harry teased Ernie often about the extra ten pounds he wore right around his middle, and Ernie returned the two finger salute he’d just received.  
  
But he threw the card in the trash.


	10. Winter White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this part:  
>  

It was snowing again. Big, heavy wet flakes that obscured the view and covered the statue in the square across the way and the buildings beyond with what looked like a thick coating of icing sugar. It was pretty, and Harry was quite sure, cold and messy as all hell, and he hesitated inside of the doors. He didn’t use this exit from the Ministry often; he didn’t much like the Floo, but stepping out into the busy Muggle traffic felt weird to him, now. My, how his life had changed. At one time, the enchantments around the Ministry that hid it from Muggle view had seemed odd; now, the reverse was true…  
  
He heard a high pitched female giggle from not far behind him and turned, the hair lifting on his neck even as a scowl formed on his face. He found what he’d known he would, squared. Not only was Umbridge standing about ten feet behind him, hideous in a chunky pink skirt and sweater, but she was talking to Skeeter and they were simpering together.  
  
“More lives than a Kneazle, that one.”  
  
Harry glanced to the side, his scowl fading somewhat. “Hey, Denny,” he said softly. The much shorter man with the sandy blond hair, leaning against a nearby pillar, nodded.  
  
“Harry.”  
  
Dennis Creevey reminded Harry so forcefully of his brother, Colin, that every time he saw him a melancholy ache grew in his chest. He’d never forget the still, lifeless face, the freckles standing out in bold relief across the upturned nose. Colin had looked like a child, lying on the floor in the Great Hall. But then, he had been. They all had.  
  
Harry eyed the camera hanging around Denny’s neck and smirked. “Waiting on the blood hound?”  
  
Dennis smirked in response. “She wanted to talk to Umbridge, God only knows why.” He made a sound of disgust and shook his head. “How some people manage to still have a career in the Ministry is beyond me.”  
  
“She knows where all of the bodies are buried, Denny. And isn’t above using the information to get what she wants.” Harry shot the smaller man a wry look. “Fortunately, that will only get her so far. Under secretary to the under secretary in charge of Maintaining the Civil Rights of Magical Creatures is as far as she’ll ever get,” his smile ripened, “and that, my friend, is funnier than you’ll ever know.”  
  
“You’ll have to tell me sometime,” Denny said, his eyes sparkling. “I’ll even buy the beer.”  
  
“You’re on.”  
  
Harry looked back at the two women. “I don’t know how you stand to work with that one,” he said, shaking his head when Skeeter cackled at something Umbridge had said. “She’s a nightmare.”  
  
“Oh, Rita’s not so bad,” Denny said with a shrug, and Harry arched a brow at him. “I mean, I can understand why you don’t like her,” he allowed. “But she’s been good to me, and to Mum.” Denny’s voice grew softer and his expression pensive. “Mum hasn’t been quite right, you know, since Colin…”  
  
Harry felt a constriction in his chest, and reached out and touched Denny’s arm. “I’m sorry, Denny. Is there anything I can do?”  
  
Denny looked at him with a weary shake of his head and tired smile. “You did your bit, Harry. It’s up to the rest of us to sort out what’s left.” He glanced toward the doors. “You headed out?”  
  
“Yeah, I’ve some shopping to do for Teddy. It’s my fault; if I wouldn’t let him watch Muggle telly when he’s with me, he wouldn’t even know about some of these toys. I’m off to Harrods.”  
  
Denny’s grin widened. “Have fun with that.”  
  
Harry angled his head toward the two women, who were still chatting softly. “And you have fun with  _that_.” Denny rolled his eyes but he was grinning, and Harry laughed as he stepped out into the snow.  
  


*****

  
  
Draco clutched the collar of his coat tighter around his neck and hurried down the snowy walk, the items he’d purchased for his mother shrunk and in an inside pocket.  
  
He should have told her no. He hadn’t slept well the night before. In point of fact, he hadn’t slept well since he’d received the Owl from his aunt, asking him to come home. Oh, who was he kidding; he hadn’t slept a full night since he’d been twenty years old. He was always on edge, always looking over his shoulder. But since he’d been back in England, his paranoia had known no bounds. But what was it he’d heard once? It wasn’t paranoia if they really  _were_  out to get you? But his mother seemed to think that what he needed for his pallor was some fresh air. He’d refrained, just, from snorting. What he needed was a secluded hunting lodge in the Azures and an uninterrupted eight hours of sleep.  
  
He’d tried sleeping on the sitting room sofa the night before; he doubted he’d ever feel comfortable in his own rooms at the Manor again. The bloody sinister nutcracker had taken care of that for him. But he’d been on edge the entire night, and light-headed for most of the day since the sky had lightened from black to pewter gray. And now, it was snowing again. He shivered as a cold breeze blew wet snow into his face and sped his steps, slipping on the slush and glancing over his shoulder.  
  
From the moment he’d entered Diagon Alley, the skin between his shoulder blades had been crawling. He tried to tell himself it was just that he’d had six cups of coffee and no food, but the longer he’d been out, the more pronounced the feeling grew. And now, he was sure of it; someone was following him. Staying far enough back that he couldn’t be recognized, he’d seen the man in the dark coat, his hat pulled down low over his face, in Diagon Alley. When he’d exited quickly through the Leaky Cauldron, he’d breathed a sigh of relief on regaining the sidewalk amidst the Muggle flow of traffic. He’d been so sure that he wouldn’t be followed outside of the Wizarding district, but clearly, he’d been wrong. And now his heart was pounding against his breast bone and his breath felt trapped in his chest, and all he wanted was to get back to the Apparition point and go home. He’d just turned the corner into the alley, thinking he was going to make it--  
  
The hand that caught him around his arm just above his elbow shocked him and he cried out, his feet slipping on the slushy snow. He’d have gone down on his knees if another hand hadn’t caught his other arm, wrenching him up. Pain shot across his shoulders.  
  
“Let me go!” He cried out, swinging, terrified. He couldn’t get to his wand in his sleeve, and the hands on him seemed determined to wrench his shoulders from their sockets. “Let me go, goddamn you!”  
  
“Draco!”  
  
He went completely still, his eyes bulging as he turned his head. Inches from his, green eyes looked at him from behind round lenses. For a moment he was swamped with relief, but then fear coursed through his veins, the temperature and consistency of ice water. He looked over Harry’s broad shoulder and saw a glimpse of a black coat disappearing around the corner.  
  
“Oh, let me go,” he cried, fighting now. “Let me go, Potter. I have to get out of here. And you can’t… I can’t…”  
  
Harry shook him. “Stop struggling! For Christ’s sakes, what’s the matter with you? You know I won’t hurt you…”  
  
“Not everything is about you!” Draco hissed, his teeth bared. “Just let me go so I can leave!”  
  
“No,” Harry retorted, implacable. He switched his grip on Draco’s arms and pushed him until his back was against the brick wall. “Tell me what the hell you were running from!”  
  
Draco shot a terrified glance at the opening of the alley, but the black coat was gone. He felt a sinking of despair; oh God, he’d seen them. He’d seen him with Harry…  
  
“You have to let me go,” Draco said hurriedly. “Please, Harry. You have to let me go, and then walk back out of the alley like nothing happened. Please.  _Please_. Just go.”  
  
Harry didn’t release his grip, and stared into his face, a frown of concern between his brows. “No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “No. And you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on.” He took a step closer, his eyes filling Draco’s vision. Draco knew that expression, that cold resolve. Harry wasn’t going to let this go. He’d have to leave England again… he’d tell Andromeda—something, but he had to leave. Right now.  
  
Hoping to catch Harry off guard, he jerked at the harsh grip and began to struggle, but he should have known better. Harry was larger, stronger, healthier. Within moments Draco was breathing hard and near tears. And then Harry took another step in, and his sturdy thigh pressed between Draco’s legs, pressing insistently into his groin, and his chest flattened against where Draco’s heart struggled to burst free, and he went still, suddenly bathed in heat. He could smell him; God help him, he could smell the cologne and he recognized it. Because he had given it to him.  
  
“Harry,” he murmured helplessly. “Harry, please let me go.” His heart was beating like a maddened thing, and he couldn’t get a deep breath.  
  
Again, Harry slowly shook his head. “I can’t do that,” he said, his deep voice resolute. “You know I can’t do that. Not now that you’re back. Not until you tell me what happened; why you left me.”  
  
Draco stared into the wide green eyes, and a strange roaring sound began in his ears. He blinked quickly, but his vision was going white around the edges; as white as the snow that was still falling steadily. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He heard Harry’s voice dimly, coming to him it seemed from far away, but he couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. And then the world was tipping dizzily and he was falling…falling into the whiteness.


	11. Christmas Biscuits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this post:

At first, it was like swimming through syrup.  
  
Draco thought about opening his eyes, but his lids felt as if they were weighted down, and he really couldn’t be fussed enough to try. Most of the time he drifted in a warm, silent place; not asleep, exactly. But it was quiet, and restful, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, there was an absolute absence of fear. He was lying on something soft, covered by something warm; it was pleasant. And then, there were voices.  
  
“…exhaustion, if I had to venture a guess,” A soft, but competent sounding woman was saying, “and hunger. He’s at least a stone under weight, and from the dark circles under his eyes I’d guess it’s been a good long while since he had a decent nights sleep. His blood pressure is slightly elevated, as is his heart rate, but not outside of the normal range…”  
  
Her voice was swallowed in the lassitude, and it was silent again for a long time. And then, there was another voice; higher, closer…  
  
“His hair is pretty, Mummy.” The child was clearly trying to whisper, but she sounded as if she was right next to his head. Instinctively, Draco flinched. “Oops, I think he heared me.”  
  
“Heard you, Rose Elizabeth,” a different woman, this one whose voice was familiar, said softly. “And if he didn’t I’d be astonished.”  
  
Draco felt whatever he was laying on dip near his hip. Someone had sat down beside him. And just when he thought that lying there and pretending to be asleep might be an excellent idea, his eyes betrayed him by slipping open. The light in the room seemed very bright, and he winced against it, turning his head.  
  
“Oh, sorry.” He sensed the lights being lowered. “There you go; that should be better.”  
  
Hesitantly, he turned his head back and opened his eyes.  
  
Hermione Granger was sitting next to him on a horrid floral print sofa, her brown eyes watching him impassively. Next to her hip stood a small girl, with shoulder length red curls and wide blue eyes. Dimly, he recalled that Granger had found out that she was expecting, just before…  
  
“Hello,” the little girl said. “My name is Rose. Are you my Uncle Harry’s Draco?”  
  
Draco blinked, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “I…” He looked to Granger for help, but she just lifted her brows. No help coming from there, then.  
  
“Because, you look like his Draco. He’s got pictures, at his old house, on the mantle. And he was kissing a man with hair just like yours. And when I askst him…”  
  
“Asked,” her mother corrected absently.  
  
“Asked,” she pronounced carefully, “he told me that that was his Draco, who wented away …”  
  
“Went away,” Granger injected mildly.  
  
“ _Went_  away. And it made him very sad. So, are you? My Uncle Harry’s Draco?”  
  
Draco licked his bottom lip, his mouth suddenly dry. “I--was…” he answered faintly.  
  
Rose Elizabeth Weasley smiled, and her small face glowed. “Oh, if you was, then you still are…”  
  
Granger rolled her eyes. “If you  _were,_ Rose.” She shot Draco a wry look. “Clearly her father’s daughter.”  
  
Draco felt the first smile in a long time try to tug at his lips.  
  
“If you were,” the child parroted, “then you still are. Mummy says Uncle Harry never throws away anything.”  
  
Granger snorted softly, then covered a smile with her hand.  
  
“Are you hungry?” The bright-eyed child asked. Draco blinked.  
  
“I… yes, I suppose I am.”  
  
“We made Christmas biscuits!” Rose said, bouncing on her toes. “Would you like some? With some milk? We used kisses and m and m’s and sprinkles and white chips and little Santa faces made of sugar and…”  
  
He must have looked as lost as he felt, because Granger took pity on him.  
  
“Why don’t you go and put some on a plate for him, sweetheart,” she said, and the child shot from the room, running at full speed. “Carefully, Rose!” she called after her, then turned back to Draco. “She was so excited for you to wake up. If you can manage a biscuit or two to appease her, I can make you some soup. They’re solid sugar, but the Healer said that you’re underweight, anyway.”  
  
Draco pushed himself up the rest of the way, scooting back into the corner, the soft knitted afghan, no doubt Molly Weasley’s work, clutched in his hands and his knees near his chest. He pushed nervously at his fringe and looked around. He was in the living room of what appeared to be a small but cozy house; he could see snow falling beyond the windows and a fire burned merrily on the grate. When he looked back at Granger, she was eyeing him with something like pity on her face.  
  
“You needn’t be afraid,” she murmured. “No one can hurt you here.”  
  
“You don’t know that,” he blurted before he meant to, then bit his lip. She smiled faintly.  
  
“Oh, but I do,” she assured him. “The ‘most powerful wizard of the modern age’ set the wards on this house,” she went on with a wry grin. “Nothing can get in that he doesn’t want to, including my in-laws.” She pretended to look thoughtful for a moment. “I may have to thank him for that, actually.”  
  
In spite of her easy tone, Draco felt his dread beginning to return and pool in his stomach, and he tried to surreptitiously search beneath the blanket for his wand. He was endangering these people by merely being in their house…  
  
“He took it,” Granger said calmly. “And he put an anti-Apparition charm over the property, so you may as well just relax and have something to eat.”  
  
Draco pushed at his fringe again nervously, irritated that his hand was trembling. He fisted it and dropped it to his lap, hoping she hadn’t seen, but doubting it. She’s always been annoyingly observant. He cleared his throat.  
  
“Where…?”  
  
“He’s letting your mother and your aunt know that you’re all right. He didn’t want them to worry. He should be back soon.” She stood. “I hope vegetable is all right?” He looked up at her quizzically. “Soup. Vegetable soup.”  
  
“That…” He had to clear his throat again. He and Granger had developed--not a fondness perhaps, but an understanding before he left. He couldn’t help but feel as if he must have nullified that relationship by leaving, but she was being so kind… He felt his eyes begin to burn.  
  
He felt her hand fall to his shoulder. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” she said gently, squeezed his arm once, then walked away. Draco took and released a deep breath, his head dropping against the back of the sofa, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.  
  
He heard the fire whoosh, and looked up in time to see the green flames leap and the opening of the fireplace enlarge to three times its size. Weasley stepped out first, brushing at his cloak. Immediately behind him came Potter, his broad shoulders swathed in his red uniform, his handsome face set.  
  
“Hey, you’re awake,” Weasley said with a friendly smile when he saw Draco watching him. “Excellent.” He turned back to Harry. “See, Mate? He’s awake.”  
  
Harry nodded, stepped into the room, and went still as the fireplace returned to its normal size behind him. Draco felt the imprint of those green eyes as tangibly as if Harry had reached out and touched him, and he swallowed.  
  
Weasley looked between the two of them. “I’ll just… go check on Hermione and Rosie,” he said faintly, then moved toward the kitchen, but the other two men scarcely noticed. They only had eyes for one another, and they stared for a long time.  
  
“You shouldn’t have brought me here,” Draco said finally, his voice hoarse.  
  
“You shouldn’t have run away,” Harry countered.  
  
Draco shook his head. “I didn’t have a choice,” he whispered finally.  
  
“Bollocks,” Harry muttered. “There is always a choice.” He took a step closer. “For the longest time after you left,” he went on, his voice ragged, “I believed that you’d led me on for those two years, just so that you could destroy me when you walked away…”  
  
Draco made a wounded sound, turning his face away, his hands fisted on his knees. He heard the floor that separated them covered quickly, felt the cushion sink as Harry sat near his hip. He tried to avoid the hand that reached to his chin, but Harry caught it in his hand and gently turned it back to face him.  
  
“I don’t believe that now,” he said emphatically, his eyes level. “I know that there must have been something, someone that made you go.” Draco closed his eyes tightly. “No, don’t do that. Look at me.” Draco shook his head tightly, fighting the pull of Harry’s hand. “Draco…”  
  
He felt Harry shift closer, felt the hand at his chin stroke gently down his neck, as if he were a frightened colt and Harry were trying to calm him. But he was truly lost when Harry leaned in, his chest against Draco’s knees, and rested his cheek against Draco’s face. Draco could feel the heat of him, the strength of him, smell the soap he’d used in the shower and the shampoo that never had tamed that horrid hair, and the scent that was uniquely Harry’s own. He’d taken a shirt with him when he’d gone, and held it to his face every night until the fragrance had finally faded away…  
  
“I know that you did this because you thought that you had to,” Harry said softly, and his breath touched Draco’s ear. Draco shivered in reaction. “But you have to understand that now you’re back, I can’t let you go again.”  
  
“Harry,” he murmured, his heart in his throat.  
  
“I mean it, Draco.” Draco felt a large hand encircle his nape and hold on. “I mean it. Whatever it was, whoever it was,” he leaned back just enough to look into Draco’s eyes. “We can figure it out. But you have to tell me. Now.”  
  
Draco stared into his eyes, fear warring with relief in his chest.


	12. Going Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this post:

Harry’s eyes were so close; Draco had thought a time or two during his exile that he might have remembered the vividness of their color through the tint of longing, but he hadn’t. They were the same brilliant shade as the shining holly leaves his mother used in her Solstice centerpieces; mossy green with a darker rim, but seemingly lit from within. Especially when Harry was intent about something, the way he was now. They had been that color when they made love, too, and something low in Draco’s traitorous stomach tightened at the memory of them above him, staring down with both gentleness and need...  
  
“Draco,” Harry insisted. “Please.”  
  
Draco’s lips felt dry and he dampened them nervously with his tongue. “I’m not sure where to start,” he said softly.  
  
Harry squeezed his nape gently. “The beginning.”  
  
Draco looked down for a moment, trying to recall the precise day. There had been so much that had led up to his decision, and he still wasn’t sure saying anything to Harry was a good idea. If Draco breaking his silence led to Harry’s harm in any way, he’d never forgive himself.  
  
“You don’t understand,” he said instead, shaking his head. He looked back up, his eyes wide. “They knew things; things they shouldn’t have known. And they threatened…” He was whispering, but even so, his voice felt too loud. He looked around desperately. “Do we have to do this here?”  
  
Harry frowned slightly. “You’re safe here,” he said emphatically.  
  
Draco reached out then, his fingers curling around the lapel of Harry’s uniform. “This isn’t about me; it was never about me.”  
  
Harry’s frown deepened, and he opened his mouth.  
  
“Uncle Harry!”  
  
Rose Weasley’s happy, high-pitched voice interrupted whatever he might have been going to say, and both men looked up in time to see her running in from the kitchen, a plate piled high with cookies in her hands. She was so intent on her destination that she tripped over the edge of the knotted throw rug and the plate and cookies both flew from her hands, spinning away in a colorful arc.  
  
The child made a sound of consternation, her little mouth opened in a dismayed ‘o’.  
  
One moment, Rose was headed for a hard landing on the floor and the cookies and plate for a disastrous collision with the rug, the next it looked as if invisible hands caught her under her arms and righted her, and the cookies and plate both were floating harmlessly to rest on the small mahogany sofa table. Draco felt the brush of magic against his face like a soft, electrically charged breeze, and his eyes widened when Harry lowered his hand back down to rest on Draco’s knee.  
  
“Okay there, Rosie?” he asked when the child looked at him, wide-eyed. She took a deep breath and nodded.  
  
“You saved the cookies!” she said on a gust of air.  
  
“He saved your hard little head from a bump on the floor,” Hermione said sternly, following behind her daughter with a steaming bowl on a tray. “Thank you, Harry.” He nodded as if what he’d done wandlessly was an everyday occurrence. He’d not been doing wandless magic four years before; Draco could only stare, his heart thrumming hard in his chest.  
  
“And I told you to walk,” Hermione said pointedly to her daughter. Rosie nodded, momentarily subdued, and retrieved the plate of cookies. “Budge over, Harry, and let the man have his lap.” Harry scooted back a bit, and Draco looked up at her. She smiled at him. “Here’s your soup and some bread. Straighten out. ” He did as he was told, and she set the tray astride Draco’s legs. The soup was thick, chunks of meat and vegetables floating in it, and smelled divine, and the bread slices were large and slathered with butter. “Besides,” she went on, brushing Harry’s shoulder with her hand, “I’m fairly certain that Harry will find himself back in your lap later. If memory serves, you two could rarely keep your hands off of one another.”  
  
Draco felt his face heat, and looked down at his food.  
  
“You sat in Draco’s lap, Uncle Harry?” Rose asked, sounding fascinated. Draco ventured a glance at Harry and saw a rusty stain spread up from his heavy red collar.  
  
“I… uhm… well.” Harry finished awkwardly. The little girl giggled.  
  
“You’s too big to sit on Draco! You’d smoosh him!”  
  
Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. “There was so much wrong with that sentence I won’t even try to fix it.” She caressed the small child’s curls. “Give Uncle Harry a cookie, darling. That way he has something to do with his mouth.”  
  
She held out the plate even as Harry shot her mother a withering glance. He looked at the offered cookies; some were very carefully decorated with almost painfully neat lines, each color right where it belonged, the others were a mishmash of too much icing and heavily dotted with candies of all shapes and sizes. Harry chose one of the latter.  
  
“I did that one!” Rose declared proudly, and Harry smiled at her before biting into the thickly iced sugar cookie. Rose turned to Draco, the plate held out in anticipation. He hesitated only a moment before selecting another of the haphazardly decorated cookies, thanking her softly, and placing it next to the bowl on his tray.  
  
“I see the way this goes,” Hermione said wryly, crossing her arms and smirking. “Just understand that eating her cookies will not save you from embarrassingly prying questions.”  
  
“Something you know only too well, eh, love?” Ron had divested himself of his cloak and came back, leaning over to study the cookies. “I’ll take one of these, Rosie my love,” he said brightly, taking the carefully decorated cookie and biting into it. He slipped his arm around his wife’s shoulders as he chewed. “Harry, get Hermione to tell you about that ‘wrestling match’ Rosie walked in on last Sunday morning.”  
  
Hermione shot him a dark look and elbowed him sharply in the ribs.  
  
“They was wrestling, Uncle Harry,” Rosie said, all wide eyes. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “But they wasn’t wearing any clothes! I saw Daddy’s bum!”  
  
Harry nearly choked on his cookie, and Draco couldn’t help the smile that pulled at the corner of his lips. Harry glanced over at him, warmth in his eyes. And Draco realized that it was as normal as he’d felt in… a very long time.  
  
But also inherent in Harry’s expression was the message that they weren’t done yet. Draco had not thought for a moment that they were.  
  


******

  
  
Harry allowed Draco to finish his meal before taking the tray and handing it resolutely to Hermione.  
  
“We need to be going,” he said firmly, reaching down for Draco’s hand. Draco stared at it, then up into his face. “We need to go somewhere where we can talk.”  
  
“The healer said he needs to rest,” Hermione said, a gentle reproach in her voice. “She also said he needed to avoid undue stress, if you’ll recall.”  
  
Harry shot her a look. “I won’t cause him stress,” he muttered. She rolled her eyes.  
  
“Of course you won’t,” she muttered as she took the tray into the kitchen.  
  
“He can stay here, you know, Mate,” Ron piped up from his arm chair near the fire. “The wards are all in place. He’ll be safe here. He can kip right there on the sofa.”  
  
“I need to go home,” Draco said firmly. “My mother…”  
  
“Knows that you’re with me,” Harry interjected. “She isn’t expecting you until late.”  
  
Draco finally felt some of his resolve returning, and with it came a flash of irritation. “That was bloody presumptuous of you, Potter,” he said, irritated. “I can make my own decisions.”  
  
Harry looked at him, one brow arched, his hand still extended. “Says the man who was so exhausted and undernourished that he fainted in an alley.”  
  
They stared at one another, at an impasse, for a long moment.  
  
“Are they mad?”  
  
Rosie had sidled up to her father, and she stared at the two men, her eyes wide. “They look mad.” She chewed on her lower lip.  
  
Harry turned to her, his hand finally dropping. “I’m not mad, sweetheart,” he said gently. “We just need to talk, that’s all.”  
  
Rose looked at Ron. “Is that like one of you and Mum’s  _discussions_?” she asked. Ron smirked.  
  
“I imagine it is, love,” she said, ruffling her curls. “Uncle Harry and Draco do have some things to discuss. And it’s time for you to go to bed. Hugs and kisses all around, yeah?”  
  
She pouted but nodded, turning to Harry, who went down on one knee to accept her hug and a kiss to his cheek. When she came to Draco, he hesitated just a moment before leaning over and allowing the child to kiss his cheek, her pudgy arms curling around his neck. She smelled of sugar cookies, and he patted her awkwardly on the back. He was still watching her in bemusement when she went meekly down the hallway, her hand in her father’s.  
  
And then Harry was back, his hand once again resolutely extended. Draco stared at it before sighing heavily and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. There was a moment of startling vertigo, and he swayed, then reached out to steady himself.  
  
A strong arm curled around his waist, pulling him in to rest against a solid body. He looked into the hooded eyes, just inches from his own.  
  
“Don’t fight me on this,” Harry said, his voice soft but his intensity undiminished. “We have to talk, Draco. Tonight. And this time,” he paused meaningfully, “you have to  _trust_  me.”  
  
Draco stared into his face. He still wasn’t convinced that this was a good idea, but what choice was he being left with, really? After a moment, he nodded.  
  
His coat and hat were retrieved, and once he’d donned them subdued goodbyes were exchanged all around.  
  
“Please, come back again,” Hermione said to Draco, her eyes imploring. “Please.” Draco hesitated for a moment, then nodded. She looked at Harry. “I’m going to want to know what’s going on,” she said meaningfully. “Sooner rather than later. And you know we can help.”  
  
Harry nodded. “I know, and I’ll be in touch soon. I promise.” She didn’t look convinced, but she crossed her arms and nodded. Harry slipped his arm around Draco’s waist again, and it felt warm and solid.  
  
“Ready?” he asked.  
  
“Have I a choice?” Draco retorted. A slight smile pulled at the corner of Harry’s lips.  
  
“None whatsoever,” he answered.  
  
“Then I suppose I’m ready. Where are we going?”  
  
Harry’s eyes took on a cautious expression. “The safest place I know.” With that, he nodded at Hermione again, tightened his hand in Draco’s coat, and pulled them into side-along Apparition.  
  
His dizziness on landing was worse than it had been on standing, and Harry held on to him with both hands until it passed. Wherever they were, it was snowing lightly, and very cold. He could feel flakes melting against his face, and in the distance, Draco thought he could hear the sound of singing.  
  
“All right, then?” Harry asked when he finally straightened and opened his eyes. Draco swallowed against the nausea that made the soup swim threateningly in his stomach, but nodded. One of Harry’s hands dropped away, and he took a deep breath and looked around.  
  
They were in a small village. The main square was covered in several inches of snow, and across the way he could see a cemetery nestled in next to a quaint church, its stained glass windows illuminated from within, the sound of singing coming from inside. Draco inhaled sharply, then exhaled as recognition dawned.  
  
He knew exactly where they were.


	13. The Beginning of Why

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this part:

They walked on the powdery snow, their footsteps soft, like footfalls on sand. They passed the little church with its hidden choir and jewel bright windows, the small cemetery at the back of which sat the two simple headstones marking Harry’s parent’s graves, and the ruins of the home where Harry had spent his babyhood. They walked down the narrow main street, by the shuttered businesses and the single pub, from which an entirely different kind of music drifted. The walked until there were no more houses or shops, where there were open fields and then finally, a comfortable looking home, not as large as the Manor but not as small as the other homes in the village, either.  
  
“I thought you sold it,” Draco said finally, pausing by the gate to look at the house, nestled amidst winter bare trees. Harry looked at him quizzically. “You told Teddy that you couldn’t go back.”  
  
“I reminded Ted that I didn’t live here anymore, which I don’t,” Harry said softly. “I’d never sell it. Never.” His eyes were full of unspoken meaning, and Draco allowed himself to take a deep breath. The thought that Harry might have sold their home had hurt far more than he’d expected.  
  
“Why didn’t we just Apparate in?” he asked instead, his voice tight. “I’m freezing.”  
  
“Anti-apparition spells. I haven’t been here in a while and its part of the wards. Kreacher takes care of it, and the wards don’t keep him out. Just anyone else who doesn’t belong there.” He smirked slightly, turning toward the gate.  
  
But his words triggered something in Draco, and he stiffened. When Harry tried to pull him through the gate, he dug his heels in and refused to move. Harry looked back at him, his brow creased.  
  
“Draco?”  
  
“Are anti-eavesdropping spells part of the wards now?” Draco whispered.  
  
“What?” Harry took a step closer.  
  
“Anti-eavesdropping spells.  _Muffliato. Silencio._  Whatever. Just something to make sure that we can’t be overheard.” He’d begun to shake, and his voice reflected that.  
  
“Draco—“ Harry took a step closer, “—we can’t be heard inside the house.”  
  
Draco shook his head, fear clutching at his intestines. “You’re wrong,” he wheezed. “You’re wrong. And if those aren’t part of the wards, I’m not going in there. I’m going to the Manor.” He began to try to pull his hand from Harry’s grip, his heart suddenly racing, but then he remembered that the Manor wasn’t inviolate, either. That bloody Nutcracker had gotten in, and before he’d left, there had been other things... He had nowhere to go that was safe; nowhere in England, nowhere at all. “I should just leave,” he said, more to himself than to Harry. “This is madness. I should never have come back.”  
  
“Stop.” Harry took a step closer and caught both of Draco’s arms below the elbows, holding on tight. He was so close that Draco had no choice but to look into his face. “I’ll put up whatever kind of silencing spells will make you comfortable. But you aren’t leaving.” He shook Draco; it wasn’t hard, but it was enough to remind Draco of the strength in his hands, the muscle in his body. Draco gripped the front of Harry’s uniform in his gloved hands.  
  
“I’m afraid,” he whispered, his voice so soft that he knew Harry would have to read his words rather than hear them. Harry’s eyes and hands softened.  
  
“I know,” he whispered back. “But nothing can hurt you here. I swear it.”  
  
“What about you?” The words were out before Draco had meant to say them, and now he couldn’t take them back. Panic roared through him.  
  
Harry angled his head slightly, frowning. “Me?”  
  
Draco nodded anxiously, swallowing the dryness that spread through his throat. He’d not been supposed to say that; he’d been warned never to say that. He blinked, his eyes stinging.  
  
Harry released his elbows and slid his arms around Draco’s waist, pulling him into his embrace and holding him. “Sweetheart,” he whispered against Draco’s ear. “Is that what you’re worried about? Me?”  
  
Draco nodded quickly, clenching his eyes tightly closed, gripping Harry’s uniform so tightly that his hands hurt.  
  
“No one can touch me here, either. I put stronger wards around the house when I moved out so that no one could get near it without my express permission. We’re safe here; as soon as we get inside, I’ll do every anti-surveillance spell I know, all right? But first, I have to take down the wards.”  
  
Draco nodded quickly. “Hurry,” he urged, stepping back. “Please Harry, hurry.” He looked around, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to replicate Harry’s warmth. He felt so exposed, standing there at the end of the walkway. They needed to be where no one could see them.  
  
He watched as Harry withdrew his old Hawthorne wand from his holster and silently lowered the wards. Draco felt them dissolve, felt the air around them thin even though he’d not been aware of them before. Without waiting, he pushed through the gate and grabbed Harry by the sleeve, bringing him with him. “Now, put them back,” he ordered firmly. “Quickly.”  
  
Harry shot him a wry look, but didn’t argue. When the wards settled back into place, Draco felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. They started up the snowy walk to the doorway. When Harry reached for the knob, Draco put his hand over his and stopped him, then leaned forward to speak directly into Harry’s ear.  
  
“You go in first,” he said quickly. “Cast the anti-eavesdropping spells immediately. Don’t mention my name; don’t even speak. Do that first. It’s very important.” He leaned back and looked into Harry’s eyes, and Harry hesitated, then nodded warily.  
  
The warmth from the house flowed out to Draco as he waited on the porch. It had been something of a run down mess when Harry had first found it, but they’d worked together to turn it into a home, and moved into it just before their first Christmas together. The happiest moments of his life had taken place in this house, Draco thought. And some of the most terrifying…his heart was starting to beat more rapidly again and his breath was growing short when Harry was finally back in the doorway, his hand extended. Draco clutched it gratefully and allowed himself to be pulled into the house.  
  
It smelled of Christmas. Nutmeg and cinnamon and firewood and evergreen. The patterned oriental rug in tones of burgundy and hunter green that he’d found in a Muggle antique store still covered the burnished honey-colored wooden floors in the entry, and the banister of the staircase that led to the second floor was festooned in cedar garland and dark red bows. The wrought iron chandelier above threw soft, warm light into the room, and his rocking horse, the very one he’d had as a child, still sat in the curve of the staircase, a jaunty bow around its neck.  
  
“Welcome back, Master Malfoy.”  
  
The bullfrog voice startled him, and Draco jumped before looking down to find the ancient house-elf near the doorway that led to the dining room, bent forward at the waist. He felt Harry place a reassuring palm in the middle of his back, and it centered him.  
  
“Hello, Kreacher,” he murmured.  
  
“We was missing you, young master,” the elf went on when he rose from his bow. “We is glad to be seeing you back.”  
  
“I’m glad to be back,” Draco said, and it was true. The house seemed to enfold him in a warm embrace and he felt the tension beginning to drain from his body.  
  
“We’d like brandy, Kreacher,” Harry instructed. “In the sitting room, please.”  
  
“Yes, Master.” The little elf made another bow, then shuffled off toward the kitchen. Harry took Draco’s elbow and led him through a set of pocket doors into the room beyond.  
  
They’d picked out the dark leather covered sofas together, and the armchair that sat near the fire, covered in a tan and black plaid. Scarlet pillows he’d found on Diagon Alley were arranged neatly in the corner of one couch, a chenille throw the same color was artfully draped over the arm of the other. The thick rug in the center of the floor was tan with a black border, and the brick hearth, where a fire burned brightly, was draped with more garland, this one lit with fairy lights and accented with red bows. To the left of the fireplace leaned a broom, decorated to look like Father Christmas. That had been Molly Weasley’s work, and Draco remembered teasingly threatening to toss it into the fire. That had earned him a tackle to the rug on the floor, and if he remembered correctly, rug burns on his elbows. He smiled faintly. Gods, that had been a lifetime ago; someone else’s lifetime...  
  
He jumped slightly when he felt Harry’s hands at his shoulders.  
  
“Easy.” A wide palm slid down his back. “I was just going to take your coat.”  
  
“Oh, of course.”  
  
Draco let the heavy coat slide from his shoulders then reached up to pull the dark beaver hat from his head, attempting to smooth his hair with his hand.  
  
Harry took his hat from him, then his gloves, and laid everything over an ottoman that had once sat in Draco’s father’s library. All around him were memories of his life, with Harry and before, and he began to feel both sentimental and a bit overwhelmed. He was grateful when Kreacher arrived with two snifters of warm brandy, and he finally had something to do with his hands. Harry led him to the armchair and let him sip his drink, pulling over another ottoman, this one black leather, and perching on the edge of it near Draco’s knees. He, too, sipped his brandy in silence, but his shear  _presence_  reminded Draco that he expected an explanation. Draco stalled for a few minutes, then rallying his nerve, set his glass on a small end table and clenched his hands together in his lap.  
  
“You’re sure there is no way we can be heard here?” Draco asked. Harry took another sip of brandy and carefully set his glass aside as well.  
  
“Not even Kreacher can hear us.”  
  
Draco nodded, fighting back a wave of nausea. Where to begin? He looked down at his hands.  
  
“Do you remember... no, I need to go further back than that.” He squeezed his fingers together until the knuckles were white. “It was just after our second Christmas here. You were in training, and I was putting away the Christmas decorations. I opened one of the boxes, and I found a note…” His throat was threatening to close again. This was going to be harder than even he had anticipated.  
  
Harry leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands linked casually between. The sight of those competent hands helped to ease Draco.  
  
“You found a note…in the box?”  
  
Draco nodded. “I don’t remember exactly what it said; just something about how I wasn’t good enough for you.” Draco shrugged. “I thought it was a joke. You know, something the twins would say. I didn’t think too much of it…”  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry’s heart ached; seeing Draco so painfully nervous was nearly impossible for him. He so desperately wanted to take him in his arms and hold him and tell him that everything was going to be all right. He looked—fragile, something Draco had  _never_  been, not after the flight through the fire, not even after the final battle. He’d retained the ingrained arrogance, the haughty outward demeanor, and Harry had loved it in spite of himself. It was part of what defined Draco; that unwavering resilience, the stiff upper lip that hid the gentle soul. Only once before had he seen Draco as frightened as he was right now, and the comparison made Harry feel even more anxious. This was how he’d looked sixth year; parchment pale, underweight, his grey eyes too large and his usually soft, full mouth tight. He vowed then that whatever, whoever, had done this to Draco, he would make them pay for it. He was so wrapped up in his study of the alarming outward changes that it took him a moment to process what he’d actually said.  
  
“There was a note… in a box inside of this house?” he asked, his attention now firmly engaged.  
  
Draco nodded quickly without looking up, his pale fringe falling over his forehead, shining gold in the firelight.  
  
“Like I said, I thought it was a joke. George having a laugh, or maybe even Ginny. But then one afternoon, I found another.” He looked up into Harry’s eyes. “This one was on my desk… in the lab.”  
  
Harry stiffened. Because of the nature of Draco’s work on the wolfsbane serum, there had been additional wards around his lab at the Manor, in addition to some of the most complicated wards in Britain on the house itself. Very few people knew the keys to those. “What did it say?”  
  
When he spoke, his words were little more than a breath of sound. “That you’d be better off dead than with me.”  
  
Harry stared. “Let me clarify,” he said stiffly. “These were  _inside_  of this house, and the Manor.”  
  
Draco nodded. “There were more after that. They got… uglier. And more personal.”  
  
“Personal—how?”  
  
Draco looked toward the fire, and his profile looked stark against the flames. “They knew what you were wearing on any given day. They knew when we’d made love—“ his voice dropped even further, “—and what we’d done. In detail.” His eyes closed, and his long lashes looked tipped by flame against the blush that stained his cheeks. “They started out just being notes, but then there would be…objects, that would talk.” He recalled the Nutcracker with a shiver.  
  
“Objects?” Harry’s brow furrowed.  
  
“The little glass cow that Molly gave us,” he answered hollowly. “The painting in the hall, the one of the shepherdess with her sheep. They began to tell me that I’d somehow bewitched you; that I’d used dark magic to ensnare you, and that I’d pay for it.” He looked up, his light eyes very wide. “I didn’t, Harry,” he said quickly. “I swear it.”  
  
Harry reached forward and grabbed his hand. “I know that,” he said firmly. “I chased you, remember?”  
  
Draco took a deep breath and leaned back, but for the first time, a slight smile dimpled his cheek. “I do. You were uniquely obstinate. Mother threatened to hit you over the head with a vase if you didn’t leave off.” He paused, his eyes warming. “Until I told her that I didn’t want you to.”  
  
Harry linked their fingers and looked at their hands; his fingers shorter, darker and thicker, workman’s hands, and Draco’s; long, elegant, graceful, as aristocratic as he was. “Tell me the rest,” Harry prodded gently.  
  
Draco took a deep breath and slowly released it. “It was more of the same for a while. And then—” He hesitated, his whole body tightening. Harry squeezed his hand. “Then, they told me that if I didn’t leave,” he paused again, and Harry felt a tremor move through his hand, “that they would be forced to kill you.”  
  
Harry’s eyes narrowed.  
  
Draco looked up. “I didn’t believe them, of course. Who could kill you? The darkest wizard of all time had tried, repeatedly, and failed. But then, you were injured in that raid in Knockturn Alley…”  
  
“That was an accident, Draco,” Harry interrupted. Draco shook his head quickly, his eyes wide.  
  
“I had gone to the kitchen for tea, and there was a note on the kettle, telling me that they’d be Flooing from St. Mungo’s any moment, and then Weasley was there in the fire…”  
  
“Wait.” Harry frowned. “There was a note, here, before anyone from the Ministry had notified you?”  
  
“Yes,” Draco replied, his face drawn. “And the next time, when you took that slicing hex in Essex, a note just…popped into being in front of my face…”  
  
Harry stared, disconcerted. “But, you never said anything. Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
“Because I was warned not to. Every single bloody parchment, every fucking inanimate object, said that if I breathed a word of it, to anyone, they would know. And they knew  _everything else_. When I’d been to the market, what supplies I’d bought, what I was wearing, what  _you_  were wearing…gods, I found a fucking note in an eggshell one morning when I went to make breakfast.”  
  
“But, everything seemed fine…” Harry murmured, and Draco stared at him, his eyes sad.  
  
“I worked very hard to appear normal,” he said. “But you’d begun to notice, remember?”  
  
Harry frowned. But he did remember. Draco had begun to seem… preoccupied, sometimes withdrawn, but when he’d asked about it Draco had told him everything was fine. It was what had made it so easy to believe that he’d simply left him…  
  
“And then, there was that training session, in Cheapside.” Draco’s face grew very drawn, and tears welled along his lower lids. “I received a note that morning saying that they were done playing with me, and that I had ignored thier instructions for too long. That I had sacrificed your life, because I wouldn’t do what was right. That because of me, you would die that day… in Derbyshire.”  
  
Harry gaped at him, a chill racing down his arms.  
  
“I knew you were in Cheapside,” Draco went on, sounding hoarse. “I Floo’d Shacklebolt, and he told me where you were. I thought, ‘ah ha, they  _don’t_  know everything'. And then you got home, and the drill had been moved…”  
  
“…to Derbyshire.”  
  
Draco nodded. “The next note came that night, while you were sleeping and I was sitting right here. It appeared through the Floo. The locked and warded Floo. It said ‘Last Chance.’ The next morning, after you left for the academy, I did what they had been telling me to. I disappeared.” Draco stared at him as a tear slipped down his pale face. “I might be willing to risk any number of things, Harry, but not you. Never you.”  
  
He turned his face to the side, his eyes tightly closed, and Harry felt the shudders that soon shook his shoulders begin in his hand.


	14. Calling In Reinforcements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this part:

“What’s in the bag, Mate?”  
  
Harry set the Harrods Department Store bag on the corner of the couch in Ron and Hermione’s sitting room and removed his gloves. He’d just spent the most irritating hour of his life navigating the crowds inside of the festively lit store in order to purchase Teddy’s Christmas gift.  
  
“The Hovercopter R/C Flying Saucer,” Harry answered shortly, taking a hat from his head and tossing it on the couch. “And I’m revoking Ted’s telly privileges as of right now if it means dealing with that ever again.”  
  
“Oh, no you aren’t,” Hermione said indulgently, moving the bag to the floor and taking Harry’s hat and gloves. She glanced over her shoulder at her husband, who was eyeing the bag with interest. “And no, you can’t see it. You’ll just want to play with it, and that’s not why Harry is here this evening.”  
  
“Kill joy,” Ron muttered, and she smirked.  
  
“Come on into the kitchen, both of you. You can have a beer while I’m finishing up with dinner.”  
  
“Where’s Rosie?” Harry asked, running his hand through his hair.  
  
“The Burrow,” Hermione answered, leading the way to the brightly lit, fragrant kitchen. “I didn’t think you’d necessarily want her here for this.”  
  
Harry nodded a bit wearily as he trailed behind her. “Probably a good plan.”  
  
“Sit,” she said, pointing to the kitchen table and turning to the stove. Harry fell heavily into one of the sturdy kitchen chairs, and Ron went to the refrigerator, taking out two beers. He uncapped them and handed one to Harry, then leaned against the counter near the sink. Hermione stirred something in a heavy cast iron pot on the stove, then replaced the lid and came to sit across from him.  
  
“So,” she said, reaching across the table to take his free hand. “Talk to us.”  
  
Harry looked into the warm brown eyes, glanced over to find Ron watching him with a steady, calm expression, and knew again how lucky he was to have them in his life. They’d never judged; not when he’d come out to them, not when he told them he was in love with Draco Malfoy. Oh, Ron had had a bit of trouble with that in the beginning, but their steadfast friendship had never been in question. And he wasn’t sure he’d have survived without them when Draco left. And now? Now he could really use their calm, steadying presence yet again.  
  
“Is he all right?” Hermione asked, her fingers warm between his.  
  
“He was when I took him back to the Manor last night,” he answered. And that had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Harry had wanted for them both to stay in Godric’s Hollow; he didn’t want to let Draco out of his sight. But after what Draco had told him about what had happened to him in the house, he knew they couldn’t stay there until he’d gotten to the bottom of it. And so, he’d returned him to his mother, who had been waiting for him even though it was nearly three in the morning, and he’d gone home to spend a sleepless night staring at the ceiling, mulling over everything he’d heard. He’d had to go into work that day; if they truly were being watched, he had to behave in as normal a manner as possible while he tried to get to the bottom of it. However he’d thought of little but Draco, and what he’d told him, all day.  
  
“So, did he tell you why he left, then?” Ron asked, taking a sip of his beer. Harry looked at him and exhaled heavily.  
  
“He did,” he answered. “And I’m not sure what to think.”  
  
Trying to remember each detail, Harry related what Draco had told him the night before. As he spoke, he could see Hermione’s quick mind absorbing all of it. Ron stopped him a few times to ask questions, questions Harry had asked himself, and for which he had no answers.  
  
“Inside the house, Mate?” he said, crossing to the table and sitting in the free chair. “How’s that even possible, with your wards?”  
  
“No idea,” Harry answered.  
  
“Not just inside of the house, but inside of the Manor, in the lab, as well,” Hermione mused. “Who would even have access to those areas?”  
  
“Very few people,” Harry answered. “All of whom we trusted completely.”  
  
Ron sat back in the wooden chair, his face pensive. “That’s right creepy. And not for anything, but if that ugly cow Mum gave you started talking to me? I’d either be taking it out back and using it for target practice or giving up booze altogether. Or both.” Harry smiled weakly.  
  
“And this began right after Christmas, is that right?” Hermione asked.  
  
“He said he found the first note in a box when he went to put away the decorations.”  
  
“A box that had been in your attic the entire time?” Harry nodded.  
  
Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “That’s so odd. How could anyone even get to it?”  
  
Harry shrugged. “Again, no idea. Although we did have several parties that year. Draco really wanted to show off the house.” He looked down and picked at the label on his beer with his thumb nail. The silence that settled was uncomfortable.  
  
“Harry,” Hermione finally said carefully, “does he seem… emotionally stable to you?”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Just that…” She hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully. “He has clearly been through an enormous ordeal. He’s so terribly thin and pale; I don’t believe I’ve seen Draco looking that drawn since…”  
  
“Sixth year,” Ron provided softly. Harry slumped in the chair, but nodded in agreement.  
  
“Do you think it’s possible,” Hermione went on, “that something might have gone wrong...psychiatrically?”  
  
She spoke cautiously, as if afraid of Harry’s reaction, but he’d already thought the same thing. What if, after everything Draco had been through during Voldemort’s time in power, something had snapped in his head and he was imagining all of it? But they’d had two really good years together; calm years, filled with love and laughter. Draco had seemed so steady, so happy. There had been nothing he could think of that might have triggered a psychotic episode. And he remembered the bald terror in Draco’s eyes as he talked, and his utter conviction, and he shook his head slowly.  
  
“No,” he answered. “No, whatever’s going on here, Draco is absolutely convinced that it’s real.”  
  
Hermione stared at him for a long moment, her eyes wide, emotions playing across her mobile features. Harry stared back. He recognized the expression; he’d seen it hundreds of times before, and for the first time that day he felt a burgeoning hope.  
  
“What, Hermione?” Ron asked, leaning forward. Harry was as well, and he’d not even realized he’d done it. How many times had they played out this scenario, he wondered; he and Ron hanging there, knowing she was about to say something brilliant.  
  
“Just… one moment,” she stood abruptly. “I need something from—”  
  
“The library,” the men provided together, but she’d already hurried from the room.  
  
“Should we follow her?” Harry said, anxious, starting to stand. Ron put his hand on his arm, his mouth twisted in a slight smile.  
  
“We’d just get in her way. Better to wait here. Drink your beer, Mate.”  
  
Harry subsided back into his chair, but his heart was pounding and drinking a beer was the furthest thing from his mind.  
  
They didn’t have to wait long. Hermione came back into the room, lugging a huge book, and Harry was forcefully reminded of that time during first year when she’d found the information about Nicholas Flamel. With her hair a halo of curls around her head, she didn’t even look that different. She dropped the book in the middle of the table with a solid thud and Ron smirked at him, mouthing ‘light reading’. Harry fought a smile.  
  
“I found this book not long ago at Borgin and Burke’s when I was doing some research on a case file,” she said, throwing it open and skimming her finger down the table of contents. She was muttering to herself, her eyes moving quickly over the page. It took her another moment, but then her finger paused and she made a satisfied sound in her throat. She flipped through the pages, her face avid, her eyes searching quickly. “ _Here!_ ” she said finally, looking up at Harry. “Harry, have you ever heard of the  _Municipium ad veneticium_?”  
  
He frowned. “The what?”  
  
“Loosely translated, it means  _Laws of Sorcery_. Didn’t you have to study them at the Academy?”  
  
He and Ron exchanged a confused look. “Maybe,” Ron said. “Is there a point?”  
  
She looked between them. “Honestly! Yes, there’s a point!” Her eyes took on a familiar gleam; she was on the case, and she had a clue. “Harry, I think you’re right. I don’t think Draco is imagining what happened, either. At least, not without outside interference.”  
  
Slowly, Harry stood.


	15. Naughty Or Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this post:

Harry hurried through his usual morning routine; cleaning out his ‘in’ box, filing his reports, checking to see if there had been any unusual activity over-night. Traditionally, December was quiet but for the occasional break in; the Aurors often joked that even dark wizards had families and no one wanted to spend Christmas in Azkaban. But Harry was pre-occupied and irritable; he didn’t want to be at the Ministry at all. He wanted to be in Wiltshire, with Draco.  
  
But Hermione had insisted that Harry needed to be seen that morning.  
  
“You have to go in to work tomorrow, Harry,” she’d said when he told her he planned to go to the Manor and stay there. “Your impulses today were right spot on; if someone is targeting Draco because of you, you need to remain visible. It’s truly the best way to keep him safe. You go to the Ministry and I’ll go pull some more research from the archives at the MLE. I’ll meet you in the Atrium and we can Floo to Wiltshire at one.” She’d smirked. “I doubt Mrs. Malfoy would let me onto the property without you.”  
  
The law enforcement professional in Harry knew that she was right. He had to maintain an outward show of normalcy; anything else would tip their hand, and they were still trying to figure out just exactly what they were dealing with. But the man in him chaffed; what she’d uncovered in that heavy research volume had chilled him to his marrow, and he had Floo’d Malfoy Manor from Ron and Hermione’s fireplace almost instantly, just to be sure Draco was all right. He had been asleep on the sofa; Harry had spoken to his mother. He’d spoken to her again when he arrived at his own flat. If Draco hadn’t been the one who had appeared in the fire that morning, Harry was more than prepared to go through, protocol be damned. But he had been there; he’d looked tired and drawn, but he’d managed a smile and even joked weakly.  
  
“Deep breaths, Boy Wonder,” he said, smirking slightly when Harry said how much he wanted to be with him, and how much he hated the separation. “I’m not going anywhere. You put me under house arrest, remember?” Harry had smiled in return, but the dark circles under Draco’s eyes had haunted him. They had to figure this out, and soon. Draco’s brittle appearance frightened him more than he cared to admit.  
  
“Don’t forget the fan mail,” Ernie said brightly, dumping several envelopes on the corner of Harry’s desk. He eyed the messy stack balefully.  
  
“Bin it,” he snapped. “All of it. I haven’t the patience for it today.”  
  
“Oh, no you don’t,” Ernie said, shaking his head with a teasing grin. “Shacklebolt said we have to go through every piece of mail that arrives at the Ministry, just to be sure that there aren’t any death threats hidden in the party invites. You know the rules, and I’m not dealing with that shite for you.”  
  
Harry was so angry he glared at Ernie, and his partner took a step back, his jaunty smile fading, his eyes widening. “Harry, Mate, listen, I…”  
  
“Just… stow it, Ernie, all right? I’ll do it. Just don’t play ‘hail fellow well met’ today. I’m not fucking in the mood.”  
  
Ernie swallowed and returned to his own desk. “Right, sorry. I’ll just leave you be.”  
  
Any other day, Harry would have felt bad. But today, he simply couldn’t be arsed to care. Ernie was all right, and he was a good partner, but he had the common sense of a garden gnome.  
  
Harry tore through the envelopes in irritation. Christmas greetings from the Daughter’s of the First War, fan mail from a teenager in Dorset who wanted to ‘have his babies’. ‘That one missed the headlines’, he thought wryly, tossing it aside. There were several very nice Christmas cards, all of which he glanced at absently, invitations to holiday dos, including one at Shacklebolt’s he’d probably have to put in an appearance at, and a note written in crayola from Rose Weasley, reminding him that he’d promised to go ice skating with her on Boxing Day. That one made him smile. He thought that was probably why Hermione had sent it to his office rather than his flat; she knew how much he hated the whole mail nonsense. She’d also know that a note from Rosie would brighten his day. He’d have to remember to answer it when he got home; Rosie loved getting owls almost as much as Harry hated it.  
  
He was nearly to the bottom of the stack when he came across a cobalt blue envelope, addressed to him in glittering gold ink. His lips twisted as he used his wand to spell it open. It floated in the air in front of him, just as the others had, the flap lifting, a card sliding free. There was a beautiful picture of an angel on the front; a male angel, in billowing white robes with long flowing dark hair who looked suspiciously familiar, flying through a sea of stars. Harry sighed and shook his head, even before the card opened.  
  


> **You deserve better than him, and I mean to see that you get it.**

  
  
Harry went very still, staring. His heart leapt into his throat and his hands went cold even as he reached out and plucked the card out of the air.  
  
“When did this get here?” he asked Ernie. His partner looked at him warily.  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“This card; when did it get here?”  
  
Ernie looked at it and frowned slightly. “Came in with the rest, Mate. Why?”  
  
Harry looked back at it, grabbed the envelope as well and studied the writing. It was from whoever had sent him the card with the scantily clad man in the Santa hat just days before, the same one who had been sending him increasingly personal cards and notes. He might not have thought much of it before, but in light of what he’d been dealing with for the last two days, this time there was no mistaking the ominous intent. Harry stared at it for a moment longer before shoving the card roughly back into the envelope.  
  
“Something off there, Harry?” Ernie said, frowning, starting to stand. “Do I need to fetch the boss?” Shacklebolt took personal threats to his Aurors very seriously, particularly Harry, and insisted that any such correspondence go immediately to senior investigators.  
  
“No, just my number one fan going a bit overboard,” he answered, attempting to lighten his tone. Ernie wasn’t the brightest torch on the wall, but he wasn’t completely stupid.  
  
“You sure?” he said, still hovering just over his seat.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” Harry said, waving him back down. But when Ernie’s attention had turned back to a report, Harry slipped the card into an inside pocket of his uniform.  
  
The senior investigators were good, but they had nothing on Hermione Weasley. And Harry knew a direct threat when he read one.  
  


*******

  
  
  
Draco hated being treated like an invalid, and much as he loved his mother, if she brought him one more cup of tea that reeked of chamomile, he was going to start watering her plants with it. He knew that she was worried; the way she looked at him, that crease between her fair brows, spoke volumes. Narcissa Malfoy was very careful, usually, not to frown. And she kept touching his hair, and trying to get him to eat. He appreciated her concern, but he was beginning to chafe at being treated as if he were seriously ill. But then, he’d been chaffing at everything that day.  
  
He knew he was exhausted, and that he needed to eat, but from the moment he’d opened his eyes on the sofa in the fussy sitting room, he’d had a headache behind eyes that felt dry and scratchy, and his skin fairly crawled with nerves. He managed not to dig at his arms with his nails, or snap at his mother, but he felt as if his composure was hanging by a thin and extremely frayed thread.  
  
“How are you feeling, darling?”  
  
Draco looked over at his mother and managed to stifle a sigh. He didn’t know what Potter had told her, but ever since he’d returned she’d been eyeing him as if he were a firecracker with a faulty fuse, likely to explode with little or no provocation. It made him angry, and he forced down a sharp retort.  
  
“Just as I was the last time you asked, Mother,” he answered. “Fine. Fine, fine, fine.” He sounded irritated in spite of his best efforts, and she looked hurt. He immediately felt awful. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, reaching out with his hand. She came and took it, kneeling next to where he was lying on the floral print sofa, a chenille throw over his legs. The bloody trappings of illness, he thought crossly, then pushed the thoughts aside. “I’m a terrible patient; you’ve always said so.”  
  
She squeezed his hand, a melancholy smile pulling at her full lips. “You come by it honestly,” she said. “And besides,” she went on, her forced brightness almost as difficult to bear as her worry, “you’re not ill. Just tired, and we’ll have you set to rights in no time.”  
  
He nodded and extricated his hand from hers, looking toward the fireplace. He’d hoped it was close to one, but when he looked at the clock on the mantle, he saw that it was only a quarter till. Ridiculous, honestly, that fifteen minutes should sound as long as the last five hours, but it did. He wanted Harry, desperately, and even as he thought it his own neediness embarrassed him. Gods, what had happened to him?  
  
His mother went to the chair where she’d been sitting earlier, and she turned, that same false, bright smile on her face. “Look, Darling,” she said, picking something up and coming back to the sofa. “Aren’t these adorable? I got them for Teddy’s stocking.”  
  
She held a couple of small tablets out to Draco, and he took them from her. One tablet showed a picture of Santa Claus’s face, and some candy, with the words  _You’ve been Nice!_  on the pages, the other showed a small cart piled high with something that was clearly supposed to be coal, with the words  _You’ve been Naughty!_. Draco forced himself to smile.  
  
“Very cute,” he said, pretending interest as he studied the simple drawings.  
  
“I thought that Andromeda could use them to get him to behave.” Narcissa smiled. “He’s such a high strung little thing; maybe if he thought his behaviour would impact his gift total, he might be more manageable.” She touched his head. “It worked with you.”  
  
Draco looked up at her, frowning slightly. “I had Naughty and Nice notes?”  
  
His mother’s smile widened. “No, you had gold stars. Don’t you remember? I used to put them on the calendar. Every day that you were good, you got a gold star. On the days when you were not…”  
  
“I got a badger!” Draco exclaimed, remembering.  
  
“Exactly. Your father thought the worst threat imaginable was the idea of being a Hufflepuff. Although, as your naughtiest pranks were usually very Slytherin in nature, I rather think that if ever a threat was an empty one, it was that.” She smiled. “You have always been so very cunning.”  
  
Draco smiled weakly. He wasn’t feeling terribly cunning at the moment. Just shakier and shakier by the second.  
  
“Mother,” he said, clearing his throat. “I wonder if I might have some of those cinnamon biscuits that Mipsy made yesterday? I’m feeling a bit peckish.”  
  
“Of course, Darling,” she said quickly. “Mipsy is out in the green houses, so I’ll just go and fetch them, shall I?”  
  
Draco smiled gratefully. He knew perfectly well that their head house-elf was supervising the collection of flowers for decorating for the Solstice; it was the reason he’d asked for the sweets, knowing his mother would offer to go and get them for him. He needed even a minute alone, just to take a deep breath, to close his eyes without knowing she was watching his every move… He squeezed her hand, and sighed gratefully when she walked out of the room.  
  
The silence in her wake was complete, and Draco felt the skin between his shoulder blades crawl unpleasantly. He curled his fingers around the small booklets, his eyes going back to the large ornate clock on the mantle. Ten til one; he stared at the hands, willing them to move more quickly. He wanted… no, he needed Potter to  _be_  there, needed his calming presence, needed to hear the deep, melodic voice. Desperately needed to be held in the strong arms, to feel the muscled chest beneath his cheek.  
  
His eyes drifted towards the windows across the room. It was snowing again, and he watched the flakes swim dizzily past the windows. The last four years had been kind to Potter, he thought. When they’d been in school, he’d always been taller than Potter, who from the very beginning had seemed the definition of a scrawny runt. Back then, he’d been the one who looked undernourished. It wasn’t until the first time Draco had seen him naked, when they’d both been eighteen, that he’d realized what those horrible baggy clothes had been hiding. Potter wasn’t large then, but his body was lean and muscular; he had a ‘seekers build’, sleek and wiry. When Draco had left, when they were both twenty, they’d been the same height, and Potter’s training at the Academy had begun to put on additional muscle. Now, he was at least two inches taller, and much, much broader, his body no longer that of a wiry youth, but of a man. A strong, muscular man, and just thinking about it made Draco’s mouth feel dry and his hands ache to touch him. Being held in those arms, against that broad chest, had been the first moment of complete ease he’d known in longer than he could remember and he wanted it again, immediately. He wanted to curl up against that solid body and just allow himself to  _be_.  
  
But he also wanted to strip the uniform from the square shoulders and run his hands over all of that lovely new muscle; he wanted to lie beneath the coiled strength, holding Harry in the cradle of his thighs. He wanted to touch him, kiss him, take him into his mouth, his body, and for the first time in so long he couldn’t recall when it had happened last, he felt a twitch of interest in his trousers. He closed his eyes, a wave of longing so powerful it made him ache moving through him. He wanted Harry; Gods, how he wanted Harry.  
  
He was so lost in his thoughts that at first, he didn’t notice the voices. They were whispers; he found that if he kept his eyes closed, he could ignore them. But after a few minutes, they were loud enough that it was impossible to pretend that they weren’t there, and warily, Draco opened his eyes and looked around.  
  
The whispers filled the sitting room, saying something over and over. Draco looked for the source, his head swiveling, but he couldn’t tell where they were coming from. And then one of the small booklets in his hands twitched, as if trying to pull away, and he looked down.  
  
The little Santa, the one that had been smiling so benignly just minutes before, was now glaring up at him, little eyes narrowed to beady slits, mouth pulled back in an ugly snarl. Draco stared at it, fear rising in his throat, as he made out what the little faces were saying, over and over.  
  
“You’ve been naughty, Draco Malfoy,” they hissed. “Very, very, very naughty.”  
  
Draco tried to throw the things away, but it was as if his own hand would not release them. “You’ve been naughty, Draco Malfoy,” they muttered in a growing cacophony of sound, “very, very, very naughty...”  
  
Draco shook his head back and forth, his eyes tearing. “I haven’t,” he muttered. “I haven’t done anything.”  
  
“Liar!” The Santa on top of the stack bellowed. “Liar!”  
  
The other pages took up the cry, ruffling in a rising breeze. “Liar! Liar!”  
  
“No,” Draco answered. “I haven’t been bad; I haven’t!”  
  
“You’re bad,” they shouted, the sound so loud now it hurt Draco’s ears. “You’re bad, you’ve always been bad!”  
  
“I’m not,” he whimpered.  
  
“Oh, but you are!” the top Santa hissed. “And naughty boys who don’t do as they’re told must pay!”  
  
With that, the first sheet yanked itself free of the booklet and flew at Draco’s face. He winced and turned his head, but it caught him on his ear lobe, the stiff paper slicing his skin. He gasped. After that another page flew up at him, then another, and another, the corners of the pages catching his chin, his cheek, his nose, inflicting dozens of tiny, stinging cuts. He was finally able to throw the tablets from him, but the pages continued to launch themselves at him, tiny sharp missiles inflicting painful, burning scratches, filling the air with flying, flapping bits of paper. He put his hands up to shield his face, but they kept diving at him, hundreds of little paper weapons, lacerating his skin.  
  
“You’re naughty, Draco Malfoy,” they screamed. “Naughty, naughty, naughty…”  
  
“I’m not,” Draco cried, curling in on himself. “I’m not…”  
  


******

  
  
Harry was the first through the Floo into Narcissa Malfoy’s sitting room, and it took him a moment to process what he was seeing. There was someone on the couch, and there seemed to be a small tornado of brightly colored paper blowing all around them… And then he heard the tortured voice, and saw that the bits of paper seemed to actually be attacking Draco, and he drew his wand.  
  
Hermione came through right behind him, and he heard her gasp even as he began blasting the small bits of paper into confetti.  
  
“Harry, stop!” She said, grabbing his arm, her own wand in her hand. “You’ll hit him.  _Finite Incantatem!_  she shouted, and instantly, the whirlwind ended, and the bits of paper floated harmlessly to the floor.  
  
Harry was at the small sofa in two strides, curling his arms around Draco and lifting him to sit. “It’s all right,” he said softly, kneeling in front of him. “It’s all right, Draco. Hermione stopped it. It’s all right.”  
  
Draco looked up at him, grey eyes filled with horror, tears spilling down a face that was reddened with scratches and tiny drops of blood. “Oh, God,” he gasped, his arms going around Harry’s neck and holding on hard. “Oh, thank God.”  
  
Harry held him and turned his head to look up at Hermione, who was watching them, her face a mask of startled dismay. He put his hand on the back of Draco’s head and held his face pressed to his neck.  
  
“Still think it’s in his head, Hermione?” he asked softly. She shook her head slowly.


	16. English Translation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this post:

Harry pulled the collar of his heavy dark coat up higher around his throat as he and Ron walked a perimeter around the Manor. It looked beautiful in the snow; like an elaborate gingerbread house with a thick dusting of icing sugar. Almost magical, he thought, then smiled faintly. As one of the oldest wizarding residences in Britain, he was quite certain that the Manor could boast some sentient magic, just like Hogwarts. Unlike Hogwarts, parts of it had been sealed off and weren’t currently in use. After the war some of the strongest wards known to the Auror corps had been applied, but sections of the house were still sealed; the old formal dining room, the east wing which the Dark Menace had taken for his own use. He and Draco had begun the work of clearing the remnants of dark magic left over from Voldemort’s time there, but that had stopped when Draco had disappeared. Perhaps, once the current mess was cleared up, they could get back to it. It was a beautiful old place, and it deserved to be free of the madman’s taint forever.  
  
“Bloody place is huge,” Ron groused as they began to stalk up the staircase towards the rear entrance. “And I’m freezing,” He patted his gloved hands together and exhaled heavily, resulting in a quickly dissolving cloud of vapor. “My bollocks might never descend again.”  
  
Harry smirked. “That would be a right shame, Mate,” he said, shooting his friend a sly grin. “I’m under the impression that your wife would like more children.”  
  
Ron nudged Harry with his shoulder, but his own smile was wry. “Well, at least she’d like some shagging, I reckon. I’d need them for that, too.”  
  
Harry grimaced. “Ron, you just can’t mention shagging and Hermione to me in the same sentence. I can’t think of her that way. Motherhood? Yes. Recreational sex? No.”  
  
Ron laughed. “Imagine how I feel when you mentioned Malfoy and recreational sex in the same sentence. Put me off food for a month.” It was Harry’s turn to jostle Ron with his shoulder, which he did rather more forcefully than Ron had. Ron slipped on the snow with a muttered oath, then righted himself before batting at the back of Harry’s dark head with his mittened hand. Harry shot him a grin as he ducked out of the way.  
  
Hermione was inside of the house with Draco, or Harry never would have agreed to make the rounds outside, reinforcing the Manor’s wards. And Draco seemed better this morning, or their mood would not have been so light. Harry was certain that a portion of their frame of mind had at least something to do with lack of sleep; punch drunk, Hermione called it. It had been a very long night, and Harry hadn’t left Draco’s side through most of it while Hermione had scoured every research book she had for answers and Ron had stood guard, against what they weren’t sure. Rosie was happily enjoying an extended visit with ‘Grammie Molly’.  
  
That morning Harry had Floo’d the Ministry; he no longer gave a rat’s arse about ‘keeping up appearances’. He was staying at the Manor for the foreseeable future, and he wasn’t going back into work until he knew for a fact that Draco was safe. Shacklebolt hadn’t been thrilled, but he’d given Harry his blessing with a grudging ‘it’s slow, anyway’.  
  
Ron and Harry re-entered the house, pausing to stamp snow from their boots on a thick mat just inside of the glass doors. A house-elf stood by supervising their efforts. Harry had already heard the  _you is not to be getting mud on Miss Cissy’s floors_  lecture in the past, but Ron seemed to find it hilarious. He also found the look on Hermione’s face every time one of the small creatures ventured into the sitting room amusing as hell, but he, wisely, kept that to himself. Hermione still believed that house-elves were forced into servitude, no matter how many of them told her  _but we is loving being Malfoy house-elves_. Harry thought being a ‘Malfoy house-elf’ was probably a much easier experience with Lucius out of the picture; he just couldn’t imagine Narcissa kicking one of them.  
  
The two men removed their outerwear and handed it off to the elves, then walked down the long hallway that led to the family’s private sitting room. When they got there, they found Hermione on the floor before the fire, books spread out all around her on the rug, looking just as she had during six years at Hogwarts. Narcissa was seated in a dainty wingback chair, doing needlepoint. Harry glanced around the room quickly and found Draco in the window seat, a book on his raised knees but his gaze trained out through the windows. Ron plopped down on the floor next to his wife, and Harry went to Draco, who looked up with a slight smile as he approached.  
  
“I was watching you,” he said, lifting his chin and accepting the light kiss that Harry dropped onto his lips before sitting near his knees. “Were the wards stable?”  
  
Harry nodded, placing his hand on the other side of Draco’s legs, then leaning into them. “They were fine. We just added another layer, to be certain.” Draco nodded, shifting forward slightly and fitting himself into the curve of Harry’s side. He laid his head on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry felt a sigh move through his body. “You all right, there?” he asked, his voice a low murmur, for Draco’s ears only.  
  
“Fine,” Draco answered. “Now.”  
  
It had taken a while for Draco to calm down, which Harry had felt was completely understandable given the circumstances. He’d felt decidedly shaky for a while himself. Hermione had quickly cured the cuts on Draco’s face and hands, but the tremors had lingered for several hours. He’d dozed off sometime near dawn, his head on Harry’s chest, but had been awake again by seven. Harry felt certain that when they were able to deal with whatever this was, Draco would sleep for a week. So would he, Harry reflected, his jaw hardening; he was tired, but he wasn’t resting until he’d found out who’d done this, and made them pay.  
  
Hermione made a sudden, startled sound, and Harry turned to look at her. She’d gone up onto her knees, a small, ancient leather bound volume with hand lettering on the cover clutched in her hands.  
  
“What is it, love?” Ron asked, leaning forward to read over her shoulder.  
  
“Of course!” She said, her eyes moving rapidly over the page. “I knew it was something in violation of  _Municipium ad veneticium_ ; I just wasn’t sure which statute!”  
  
“English, Hermione,” Ron said softly, and she shot him a baleful look.  
  
“If you two would just  _read_ ,” she began. Ron reached out and touched her arm.  
  
“We’ll grant you the ‘we are ignorant arses who owe you everything’ argument if you’ll just tell us what it is you’ve found,” he said pointedly, and she exhaled through her mouth, but sat back on her heels.  
  
“At one time,” she began, her professorial tone in place, “the  _Municipium ad veneticium_  governed all forms of sorcery in Britain. Before the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy of 1692, Britain’s definition of Unforgivable curses, those that could be prosecuted by wizard law, covered about five hundred different variations of curse and hex. After the Statute was passed, this was narrowed down to three, and the  _Imperious_  curse was meant to cover any curse or hex that compelled another person to do something against their will. We studied them, first year law. I knew I had read something about a particular curse, but I couldn’t remember its name!”  
  
“Hermione,” Ron huffed. “English!”  
  
“Oh, that  _was_  English!” she snapped.  
  
“Maybe to you, love,” he said, not even remotely cowed. “Please remember your audience.”  
  
She huffed again. “The other night, when I pulled out the volume about the old wizarding laws, I found a section about curses of compulsion, but there was one that was eluding me. I’ve found it!  _Aspicio meum volutatis_!” She looked so excited but everyone, including the Malfoys, returned her look blankly.  
  
“Darlin’,” Ron said. “Seriously.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Hermione said. “I’ll give you this one, since it’s so archaic.  _Aspicio meum volutatis_ , roughly translated, means ‘see my will’, or, in other words, see what I want you to see. See?”  
  
“And you think that’s the curse that’s being used on Draco?” Narcissa asked, her eyes wide and her face pale.  
  
“I’d bet my wand on it,” Hermione answered. “The inanimate objects speaking, the notes appearing out of nowhere, the feelings of being followed…” Harry felt Draco stiffen against him, and he knew what he was thinking.  
  
Harry frowned. “But, Hermione,” he said slowly. “We all saw the papers attacking him; you cured his injuries. That wasn’t in his head.”  
  
Hermione shook her head quickly. “I don’t think I’m explaining this very well.” She closed the book, chewing on her lower lip for a moment. “It isn’t so much that it’s ‘in his head’,” she explained. “It’s that he, himself, is manifesting what the caster wants him to see.”  
  
“Like, poltergeist activity is sometimes manifested by the victim?” Ron asked. Hermione looked at him, a smile near the corner of her mouth.  
  
“Yes, Ron! Exactly like that.”  
  
Her husband preened a bit. “Not a complete dumb arse, then.” Hermione rolled her eyes.  
  
“So, what your saying,” Draco said slowly, straightening, “is that someone put a curse or a hex on me, four years ago, that made me see all of the threats? What kind of spell lasts four years?”  
  
“None,” Hermione answered. “Not one cast on a wizard, at any rate. Even the standard Imperious wears off after about a month.”  
  
“Then…” Draco frowned. “I don’t see how…”  
  
“This particular spell,” Hermione interrupted gently, “isn’t cast on a person at all. It’s cast on an object, one the castor feels confident that the victim will wear touching his skin. Usually, it’s jewelry, something with sentimental value…Draco?”  
  
Hermione frowned in concern, going up to her knees, and Harry looked over to see that what little color Draco had regained in his face had drained away. “It’s impossible,” he whispered.  
  
“What is, love?” Harry asked, leaning forward. Draco turned and looked at him, his eyes wide and so dilated the pupils looked like a tiny speck in a sea of gray.  
  
“You… you would never have done this to me,” he wheezed, and Harry gawked at him.  
  
“What?” he muttered, stunned. “Of course, I wouldn’t have.”  
  
“But who else…?” His eyes searched Harry’s face desperately.  
  
“Draco,” Harry said carefully, taking both of Draco’s hands in his. They were shaking again. “What is it?”  
  
Draco pulled at his hands, and Harry reluctantly let them slide from his grip, his heart beginning to pound. But Draco didn’t withdraw from him completely; he reached into the high collar of his beige jumper, his hand going to the back of his neck and grasping something. When he pulled, a silver chain began to emerge from the confines of the jumper, something heavy weighing down the center. Something he’d clearly been wearing inside of his clothes, against his skin. When he pulled the chain off over his head and held it out, Harry saw that swinging from the shining slender necklace was a platinum ring, several diamonds dotting its circumference. It swung gently, the weak sun coming through the windows catching in the stone’s facets and making them sparkle like the frost on the window behind them.  
  
And Harry stared, stunned.


	17. Waking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this part:

Harry heard Hermione’s soft gasp behind him, and felt Narcissa come to stand just to his left, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of the gleaming circle, swinging slightly from the silver chain.  
  
“I haven’t had it off since you gave it to me,” Draco said softly. “I didn’t want to wear it on my hand, because I felt like I was being watched all of the time. But I…” He looked into Harry’s eyes, and the bald longing there made Harry’s chest tight. “I couldn’t bear to part with it,” Draco whispered. “Every time I looked at it, I remembered the moment you gave it to me, what it meant…”  
  
Harry remembered, too. Every single word he’d said as he’d knelt next to the chair in their bedroom, and asked Draco to bond with him. They couldn’t be married, not legally, but exchanging the vows of magical bonding was a union even stronger than traditional marriage. Draco had stared at the ring, looked up into Harry’s eyes, and very slowly, smiled. Harry would never forget it, ever. But as he stared at what Draco held in his hand, he didn’t understand.  
  
“Draco,” he murmured gently. “ _I_  have your ring.”  
  
Everyone in the small group stared at Harry, varying degrees of surprise on their faces, but Draco looked stunned.  
  
“No,” he said faintly. “No, this is my ring. I haven’t had it out of my sight since the moment you gave it to me.  _This_ is my ring. I’m certain of it.” He rubbed a place between his eyes, as if his head was aching. “It is,” he repeated, more to himself than to anyone else. “It’s my ring. Mine.”  
  
Harry sat back slightly, not sure what to think.  
  
It had been the morning after Draco had left, he’d been frantic, and the note he’d left behind had been little better than nothing. He’d torn apart their bedroom, opened every drawer, every closet, looking for something, anything that might tell him where Draco had gone. When he’d finally gone in to the Ministry, he’d thrown his robes on over his street clothes and Floo’d from their living room. Shacklebolt had fought him on the idea of listing Draco as a missing person; he’d left a note, the man argued. He clearly wasn’t in any danger, he’d just left. Harry had been livid. He’d gone back to the trainee’s locker room, and rammed his fist into his locker so hard that he’d broken two bones in his right hand. That was where Hermione had come looking for him, and Harry had jammed the injured hand into his pocket to hide the evidence of his stupidity from her. Instantly, he’d felt something cold and cylindrical under his fingers. When he’d pulled his hand from his pocket, he’d been holding Draco’s ring.  
  
He didn’t know if Hermione had cast a spell to keep others from coming into the locker room, or if it had simply been serendipitous that no one did, but Harry was eternally grateful that the only person who was there to witness his complete emotional meltdown was Hermione. He’d dropped heavily onto one of the wooden benches, his knees simply unequal to the task of keeping him upright, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed. He felt Hermione sit beside him, felt her arms go around him, and he’d turned his face into her neck and cried, clutching the ring in his hand. She’d held him for a long time, until his sobs had faded and he was hiccupping like a child, then she’d handed him her handkerchief and stroked his hair gently while he’d cleaned up his face.  
  
It was the low point for him. Finding the ring in his pocket had been like a punch in the gut. It had seemed the cruelest thing that Draco could do; to drop the ring that had been the symbol of Harry’s love for him into his uniform pocket, where there was a very real possibility that he would find it when he was surrounded by Aurors, people he worked with. Harry had wanted to hate Draco in that moment, but the only thing he’d managed to do was blame himself, and try to figure out what he’d done wrong.  
  
“One of them is no doubt a copy,” Hermione said bluntly. “Draco—” she came to crouch down next to the window seat, “ --may I see it for a moment?”  
  
Draco’s eyes widened and he swallowed heavily, his fingers curling around the ring, hiding it in his palm. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I… I can’t let go of it. I have to have it on me, all of the time. No one else can touch it.”  
  
“Draco,” Harry said, leaning forward, “she won’t hurt it. She just wants to see it.”  
  
“No,” Draco shook his head and pushed back into the corner of the seat, his shoulders pressed to the windows. “No, no one else can touch it.”  
  
Harry frowned and looked at Hermione as Draco curled his other hand around the one that held the ring, as if trying to reinforce his defenses. Hermione looked thoughtful.  
  
“I’d be willing to bet that whoever cursed the ring added a compulsion charm,” she said quietly. “I won’t know until I can examine it, but I’m quite sure from his reaction that they added another layer of spells, at least one specifically designed to make him believe that he has to have it next to his skin, all of the time.”  
  
Harry turned back to Draco, leaning forward, dropping his voice to a low murmur. “Draco,” he said. “Did you hear what Hermione said?” Draco blinked, then nodded shallowly. “The only way we’ll know anything for sure is if you let her look at the ring.”  
  
“No,” Draco said again, breathing more quickly, his eyes wide. “No, no one can touch it. No one but me…”  
  
“Darling, just for a moment,” Narcissa said, taking a step forward. “Give it to Harry, and he can give it to Hermione, then he can hold your hand until she gives it back. That would be all right, wouldn’t it?”  
  
Draco looked between her and Harry, his eyes beginning to shine with unshed tears. He shook his head again. “I can’t, Mother,” he whispered. “I can’t let go of it. I can’t; something horrible will happen.”  
  
“Mate, I swear to you, she won’t take it away,” Ron added his voice to the discussion. “She just needs to see it. And if what she says is true, you’re going to feel so much better when you  _aren’t_  holding it anymore.”  
  
Again, Draco shook his head. “No.”  
  
Harry started to speak, uncertain what to say, when he saw a wand out of the corner of his eye.  
  
 _”Stupefy!”_  
  
Harry whirled, shocked to see a wand in Narcissa Malfoy’s hand, pointed at her son. Harry jerked back around and saw Draco’s head loll to the side, and his body sag.  
  
“What the bloody hell…” Ron blustered.  
  
“Take it from him,” Narcissa ordered, her voice ragged.  
  
“Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione protested.  
  
“No.” Narcisssa glared at her. “Clearly, he wasn’t going to just hand it to you. Look at him! If that ring has done that to him, I want it out of his hand, immediately. Harry--” she turned to him, her eyes imploring, “--please, take it out of his hand.”  
  
Harry did as she asked. He picked up Draco’s right hand, now limp in his lap, and pried the ring from his long fingers, turning to hand it to Hermione.  
  
She looked down at it. “The only way we’re going to know which is the real one is to run some tests on both of them,” she said. “I’m going to need the ring you have, as well, Harry.”  
  
He nodded, but his eyes were on Draco’s face. “Look at him,” he said. “His color is improving, even as we speak.”  
  
And it was. Even unconscious, his lips were turning a soft pink, and a light flush was spreading over his cheekbones, showing in stark contrast how very bloodless his face had appeared before. Harry turned and looked up at Narcissa, noting the tears in her eyes. “It was the right thing to do,” he reassured her. “He’ll thank you for it, later. And I think you can wake him now,” he added gently. She nodded jerkily.  
  
 _”Ennervate!”_  she said, and Harry watched carefully as Draco stirred, his pale lashes fluttering before they lifted to reveal pale eyes that were wide, but clear. The clearest they’d been since he’d returned, and it was only then that Harry realized how different he’d seemed. Draco straightened slowly, looking around, his hand coming up to massage his chest, right where the ring had rested against his skin.  
  
“Harry?” he murmured. “What...?”  
  
Harry smiled as he leaned toward him. “Your mother,” he said, gesturing towards Narcissa. Draco looked up at her.  
  
“I’m so sorry, my darling,” she said, kneeling and putting her hand on his leg. “But it seemed the only way.”  
  
“It’s all right,” he said faintly, covering her hand with his. His eyes turned to Hermione, who was now standing behind his mother. “What happened?” He grimaced and rubbed at his temples. “I seem a bit hazy on some of the details.”  
  
“We’re not exactly sure, ourselves,” she said with a slight smile. “But, as best as I can tell, we think someone used your ring as a conduit for a version of the Imperious curse.”  
  
Draco stared at her, his brow furrowed, then he turned back to Harry, reaching out his hand. Harry caught it and entwined their fingers. “Merlin,” he muttered. “I feel as if I’ve somehow been under water all of this time. Everything seemed… wrong, somehow. Off. Like, I wasn’t thinking for myself.” He leaned forward then, his free hand going to Harry’s face, cupping his cheek. “The only constant was how much I missed you. My God, Harry, I missed you. I missed you so much.”  
  
Harry leaned his cheek into Draco’s palm. “I missed you, too,” he said his voice tight. “Every day. Every moment of every day.”  
  
Draco studied each of his features as if just seeing him again for the first time, his eyes avid, then he leaned in and covered Harry’s mouth with his, angling his head, his hand snaking around Harry’s neck.  
  
It was the first real kiss they’d shared since Draco had been back, the first one that felt  _right_. Draco had seemed so fragile, and frightened, and Harry hadn’t wanted to push. Now, he made a sound in his throat, opening his mouth to the press of Draco’s tongue.  
  
“Okay, that’s my cue to find somewhere else to be,” Harry heard Ron mutter. “It’s one thing to know your best mate snogs another man; it’s a totally different thing to have to watch it.”  
  
Harry heard Hermione giggle, and felt Mrs. Malfoy stir restlessly near his knee, and smiled against Draco’s mouth, drawing back, but pressing one last light kiss to his lips as he did so. “Perhaps we should save this for later, when we can be alone,” he whispered. Draco rolled his eyes.  
  
“Fine. Relax, Weaslebee,” he drawled. “We won’t abuse your tender sensibilities any further.”  
  
Harry heard Hermione laugh even as Narcissa laid her head on Draco’s thigh. “Oh, thank God!” she sighed. “You  _are_  back!”  
  
Draco smiled and laid his hand on her head, then looked back into Harry’s eyes.  
“Later,” he mouthed, and Harry smiled and nodded. Draco leaned back against the corner of the window seat. “Gods,” he said with a heavy sigh, “I’m suddenly so tired.”  
  
“That’s not surprising,” Hermione said. “I doubt you’ve had any actual restful sleep in a very long time.”  
  
“Listen,” Harry said, squeezing Draco’s fingers. “Why don’t you sleep for a while. Hermione and Ron and I have some things we have to do, but we won’t be long.”  
  
Draco scooted down until he could lie on his side in the wide window seat, his knees drawn up slightly. “See that you aren’t,” he said around a yawn. “You and I have some things to do ourselves, Potter.”  
  
“Oi,” Ron said from somewhere across the room. “No sexual innuendo, Malfoy. We had a deal.”  
  
“Four years ago,” Draco shot back, even as his eyes began to drift shut. “Look at it this way; you’ve had a nice long reprieve. And I have time to make up for.”  
  
Narcissa had gotten up the moment Draco said he was tired, and was now back with a fluffy pillow and a blanket. Harry stood to one side as she fussed over her son, lifting his head gently to slide the pillow beneath, pulling the blanket up under his chin. He yawned again. “I think we’re going to need a huge dinner, mother,” he murmured. “I’m hungry.”  
  
“Do you want something now?” She asked, stroking his hair. He shook his head.  
  
“Too tired,” he muttered. He looked up at Harry. “Well then, kiss me goodbye,” he said imperiously. Harry smiled even as he leaned in and did so.  
  
“Oi, he’s back all right,” Ron mumbled. “Pushy git.”  
  
“Ginger prat,” Draco said when Harry straightened, his eyes closing again.  
  
“Obnoxious ferret.”  
  
“Freckled menace.”  
  
Ron laughed. “You’re a berk, but I missed you, Malfoy.”  
  
Draco’s lips quirked up at one side. “Of course you did.” And with that, he sighed and went to sleep.  
  
Harry turned to his friends and gestured towards the door with his head. His Auror robes were hanging in a massive closet in the Malfoy entry hall, and he wanted to don them before heading to the Ministry. Harry glanced down one last time, noting again the improvement in Draco’s color, the way his chest rose and fell easily in sleep, before turning to walk out of the door. They’d made it as far as the massive foyer when he heard the sound of heels clicking rapidly on marble.  
  
“Mr. Potter,” Narcissa Malfoy called, and Harry turned. She was coming to him down a set of white marble steps, fully decorated Christmas trees on either side, blooming plants bordering them, evergreen swags around two of the four marble pillars that stood at the bottom of twin staircases and arching in graceful swags to the large light fixture above. The decorations were all green and white, accenting the elegance of the homes stately architecture, and behind her Harry could see the shining tree in the sitting room where they’d just.been. He’d noticed the decorations absently before, but now all of the lights seemed brighter and he found himself grateful that Narcissa Malfoy didn’t know how to do anything half way, including parent.  
  
“Harry,” she amended breathlessly when she caught up to him. She turned to Hermione. “Mrs. Weasely, thank you so much…”She stopped, obviously overcome with emotion, something Harry had rarely seen before. She blinked and swallowed. “Thank you,” she repeated. “Now promise me that you will find out who did this,” her gaze turned to Harry, and it had gone flinty, “and that you will deal with them, personally.”  
  
“Oh, trust me, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said firmly. “You can count on that.”

“Good.” Her smile was grim, and then she turned and went back to her son.


	18. Gratitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this part:

Harry walked back toward the Manor, his boots crunching on snow that had frozen over and now had a thin layer of ice on the top of it. Mrs. Malfoy had told him that he could adjust the wards to Floo straight into the sitting room if he wanted, but he always felt awkward, stepping into that immaculate room covered in soot. Besides, the walk from the gardens into the house gave him an opportunity to think, clear his head. And after the afternoon he’d had, that was welcome.  
  
He’d gone to his flat to collect the ring he’d found in his pocket all of those years ago; initially he’d been tempted to toss it into the Thames, but he hadn’t been able to do it. Even as hurt and as angry as he’d been, the ring had signified his relationship with Draco in his mind, and he couldn’t just throw it away.  
  
Upon arrival at the Ministry he had gone down to the MLE administrative offices, and found Ron and Hermione waiting for him. A few elementary spells later, and Hermione was able to tell him that the ring Draco had been wearing was the one that Harry had given him for Christmas; the other was a forgery. He’d watched, fascinated, as Hermione was able to transform it back into its original form. It had been, and was once again, a rusty bicycle chain.  
  
Unfortunately, more than that she had yet to be able to determine. Whoever had cursed the ring had been skilled; rudimentary spells revealed no trace of magical signature remaining. When her research and testing had begun to stretch into the evening hours, she’d sent Ron to the Burrow to fetch Rose and take her home, and had told Harry to go back to Draco.  
  
“I’ll send you an owl if I hit on something,” she said. “You go on.”  
  
“Don’t stay at it too late, Hermione,” he’d said, bussing her on the cheek. “You didn’t sleep last night anymore than the rest of us did.”  
  
She’d given him a wan smile. “I won’t,” she said. But as she turned back to her open books, her wand trained over the ring, Harry knew that she wasn’t telling him the truth. She’d stay there until she found what she was looking for. Her unflagging determination was one of the things he both loved, and found most annoying about her. Hermione would gnaw away at something long after anyone else would have given it up as lost. It was what made her a top rate prosecuting solicitor, and a fierce friend. It was also trying at times, but he’d never appreciated it more than he did then. He was anxious to get back.  
  
When Harry stepped in through the massive double entry doors, he was met by a house-elf who dutifully took his outer robes, leaving him in a black high necked jumper and black trousers tucked into his boots, and told him respectfully that ‘the family is being in the front parlor’. Harry followed the sound of voices, and grinned when he heard Teddy’s high-pitched, happy chatter.  
  
When he paused in the doorway, his smile softened at the sight that met his eyes. Narcissa and Andromeda were seated side by side on a small settee, wine glasses in hand, and Teddy was on the rug, his legs crossed and a rapt expression on his face. Draco was seated in a wing back chair in front of him, the holly wand in his hand, making several glowing symbols float in the air. The room was lit with candles, dozens of them, burning on every surface and the light caught in the waves of Draco’s hair and made his face seem to glow.  
  
“The pentagram,” he was saying as a circle with a five pointed star appeared from the tip of his wand and floated in the air. “The circle represents unity, the five points of the star indicating Spirit, Earth, Water, Fire, and Air.” As Harry watched the symbol solidified and turned into a shining aluminum shape and dropped into Teddy’s hands. He caught it with glee. Draco waved his wand, and another symbol appeared; to Harry, it looked like three leaves overlapped at their base. “The Triquetra, symbolizes the Triple Goddess; maid, mother and crone.”  
  
“Watch who you’re calling a crone, young man,” Andromeda said wryly, peering at him over the top of her wine glass. Draco shot her a smile that was so bright and uncomplicated that it warmed Harry just to see it.  
  
“Never forget, Ted,” he said, turning back to the child and trying to sound serious but his light eyes were shining, “that most of our ancient beliefs surround the power of the feminine. Which means, simply, that grandma and Auntie Cissa are always right.”  
  
“Hear, hear,” Narcissa said brightly, toasting him with her wine, and Teddy laughed in delight as the rest of the floating symbols turned solid and fell around his feet. He scrambled to collect all of them, and turned to show his grandmother, then saw Harry standing in the doorway.  
  
“Harry!” he shouted. He lurched to his feet, as many of the small metal symbols in his hands as he could carry, and ran to Harry. “Look, Harry! See what Draco made? They’re cookie cutters, and tomorrow we’re going to bake cookies and hang them on the tree, cuz these are the shapes of the olden days and the tree is green cuz it’s…” He turned back to Draco. “What is it again?”  
  
“An evergreen,” Draco said patiently, standing. “Symbol of life, even in the darkest hours of winter.”  
  
“Yeah,” Teddy said, nodding enthusiastically. “That. And we’re staying here until after the Solstice, so we can bake cookies and make wreaths and bring in the Yule log and all kinds of cool stuff!”  
  
“Very cool, indeed,” Harry said, picking up one of the gleaming cookie cutters and examining it. It was in the shape of a heart.  
  
“That one’s the symbol of love.” Draco had drawn close, and Harry looked up at him, a slow smile curling his lips.  
  
“I think I might have figured that one out for myself, funnily enough,” he said, teasing. Draco’s lips curled in a smile of response.  
  
“You do occasionally manage to get something right,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “For instance, you happen to be standing in the perfect place.” He glanced up, and Harry followed his eyes to see a sphere of green leaves and white berries topped with a bright red bow, hanging from the doorframe.  
  
“That’s mistletoe!” Teddy said proudly. “We hang it because it stays green all of the time, too, and symbols life!”  
  
“Very good,” Draco said. “Save for the mangling of  _symbolizes_ , you did that very well.” Teddy grinned and ran to Andromeda, and Draco took another step closer to Harry.  
  
“You know what else it symbolizes, don’t you, Potter?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low purr.  
  
“A reason to snog random people?” Harry asked, grinning.  
  
“Not random,” Draco replied, sliding his hand up Harry’s chest and around his neck. “Just you.”  
  
He kissed Harry then, fully and deeply, his fingers sifting into the hair above Harry’s high collar. Harry slid his arms around him, and pulled him into his body. When the kiss ended, Draco leaned his cheek against Harry’s.  
  
“You know what the sight of you in those clothes and boots does to me,” he whispered. Harry smiled into his hair.  
  
“I do seem to remember, yes.”  
  
“How soon can I get you out of them?”  
  
Harry squeezed his waist. “Soon.”  
  


*****

  
  
  
They had a lovely meal in the kitchen, something Harry thought probably rarely happened in the old days. Teddy was always entertaining company, Andromeda seemed relaxed, and Narcissa smiled a great deal, particularly at Draco. When they had finished and headed into the parlor for after dinner drinks, she skillfully maneuvered her sister and son ahead, and caught Harry’s arm.  
  
“Anything, yet?” she asked in a low whisper.  
  
Harry angled his head and spoke just as softly. “We know that the ring he was wearing is the one that I gave him,” he answered. “And that the curse was skillfully hidden.”  
  
“Which means, you don’t know who yet. So, they’re still a threat to him.” She frowned slightly.  
  
“I won’t let anything else happen to him, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said earnestly, squeezing her hand. “I swear it.”  
  
She patted his arm, but it bothered him that she didn’t seem convinced, although he supposed he could understand.  
  
It was well after ten when everyone retired to their rooms for the night. Narcissa had assigned Harry a suite of rooms for the duration of his visit, but Draco clung to his hand when they reached the landing, and bidding his mother, Aunt and Teddy a fond goodnight, pulled Harry after him to his own suite. They had spent some time in the rooms, before, and Harry had always fond them both beautiful and for their size, surprisingly cozy.  
  
When they entered, they found a fire in the fireplace and candles lit on the end tables flanking the massive four poster bed. Nothing had changed in the four years; the décor was still pale blue and white, something which had surprised Harry when he’d been eighteen.  
  
“What were you expecting?” His eighteen year old boyfriend had asked. “Green and silver?”  
  
Harry had felt himself blush, but that had been exactly what he expected, not the blond wood and the white linen covered walls and the soft sheers. The duvet was pale blue satin with white stitching, and Harry touched it fondly, finding it just as soft as it had been six years before. He’d lost his virginity in that bad, he remembered. And so had Draco.  
  
At the foot of the bed were laid out two pairs of pyjamas; one white, one black. Harry sent a grin over his shoulder.  
  
“Your mother is nothing if not organized,” he said, fingering the black top. Silk; he should have known.  
  
“She is that,” Draco said, coming to him. He picked up both pairs of pyjamas and dropped them unceremoniously on the bench at the foot of the bed. “However, you’ll not be needing those.”  
  
“Is that so?” Harry asked, eyebrow arching. Draco walked to him and slipped his arms around Harry’s neck.  
  
“It is. I would like to examine all of your new muscles, and pyjamas will only get in the way.” He let his hands slide down from Harry’s neck, over the contours of his chest. “This is impressive, Potter, I must say.”  
  
“Glad you like it,” Harry murmured, leaning in to place a kiss just beneath Draco’s ear. He angled his head to the side cooperatively.  
  
“Oh, I like it,” Draco said, pressing himself to Harry’s chest, running his palms down his arms. “Very much.”  
  
Harry encircled him with his arms, holding him as he let his lips slide down Draco’s throat. He couldn’t help but feel how terribly thin he was, and when Draco tried to stifle a yawn, but failed, Harry felt it.  
  
“Draco,” he whispered. “We don’t need to rush things, you know. We’ve all the time in the world.”  
  
Draco leaned back and looked at him sardonically. “Not on your life, Potter,” he said sternly. “Strip off, right now.”  
  
Harry shook his head, but did as he was ordered, crossing his arms and pulling his jumper off over his head. He was wearing a clinging white tank style undershirt, something he only did when he knew that he was going to be outside in the cold and needed layers, but the fabric was thin and showed every dip and curve, and the dark trail of hair that ran from his navel and disappeared in his slacks. Draco made an appreciative sound and reached out, his palm filling with one of Harry’s pecs and his thumb stroking his nipple. Harry was already hardening, and made a sound of pleasure at Draco’s touch. Draco smiled up at him, but then almost immediately tried to stifle another yawn. His eyes were beginning to lose focus even as a cross expression moved over his mobile features.  
  
“If my mother put a sleeping draft in my wine, I’m going to be very, very cross with her,” he muttered. “I want to shag, damnit.”  
  
Harry smiled and pulled him close again. “Would it be so very awful is I just held you tonight?” He asked, placing a soft kiss on the pouting mouth. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.” Draco smirked at him. “Honestly,” Harry reiterated. “Having you in my arms, just holding you, sounds like my idea of perfect.” Draco still looked unconvinced, and with that fetching pout, about ten years old. Harry cupped his face in his palm. “You aren’t the only one who’s tired, love,” he said gently. “Just, let me hold you. All right?”  
  
Draco nodded a bit grumpily, but when his hands went to the buttons on his shirt, his eyelids began to droop, and Harry went to him, pushing his fingers aside and undoing the buttons himself.  
  
He was so thin. He still retained his musculature, but his ribs showed, and his hipbones, always prominent, were even more so. Harry’s jaw tightened even as he urged him to sit on the bench and helped him gently into the white silk pyjama pants. By then he was all but asleep where he sat, and Harry pulled back the blankets and stood next to him as he slid into bed, then dimmed all of the lights before stripping down to his pants and the thin undershirt. When he joined Draco beneath the covers, Draco pressed against him, his thigh sliding easily between Harry’s legs.  
  
“Sure I can’t change your mind?” He asked sleepily, rolling his hips forward, but it was a half-hearted attempt, accompanied by another yawn. Harry smiled and kissed his nose gently.  
  
“Go to sleep,” he murmured, taking Draco in his arms and resting his head against his shoulder. The feeling of him, in his arms, was so poignant that for a moment Harry’s throat felt tight.  
  
“I love you,” Harry heard murmured next to his ear. He tightened his hold around the slender body.  
  
“I love you, too,” he whispered. He felt Draco sigh, and knew the moment he went to sleep. Harry continued to hold him, swamped with gratitude so deep that he would never have words for it.  
  


*****

  
  
He’d been sound asleep when a sharp tapping woke him. Harry blinked, his vision partially obscured by white blond hair, his limbs entwined with another’s. The tapping came again, and Harry turned slightly, reaching for his wand.  
  
He cast a silent tempus, and the numbers 3:33 floated on the air before fading away. Again, the sharp tapping came, and he extricated himself gently from Draco’s embrace, careful not to wake him, before he slid from the bed.  
  
“All right, all right,” he grumbled as he slipped on his glasses and crossed to the window. “Hold your horses.”  
  
He pushed back the light draperies and saw Ron’s owl, Pigwidgeon, flapping his tiny wings just outside of the glass. He opened the window, and Pig flew through, dropping a scroll into Harry’s hands. Thankfully, the small bird had matured with age and no longer flitted about like an addled hummingbird on drugs, but he still hooted happily at seeing Harry and tried to nip his ear.  
  
“None of that,” Harry said, brushing him away. “And hush.”  
  
The bird obediently silenced, settling on a stand just inside of the window. Harry found a plate of treats nearby and fed him one before closing the window and turning away.  
  
The light in the suite was very dim, and Harry crossed to get his wand, glancing down at Draco. He was still sound asleep, hair in his face, limbs spread out. He’d taken up Harry’s pillow when he’d gotten out of bed, and now slept with it curled in his arms. Harry smiled faintly, retrieved his wand and walked over to stand next to the fireplace before unrolling the scroll.  
  
 _”Lumos,”_  he whispered, and the tip of the wand began to emit a soft glow. He turned the parchment, and recognized Hermione’s writing at once.  
  
“Please come as quickly as you can,” she’d written. “I know who cursed the ring.”  
  
Harry stiffened, then re-rolled the scroll and headed for his clothes.


	19. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this post:

Harry strode through the mostly deserted hallways of the Ministry, his boots thudding loudly against the marble floors as he moved, anger thrumming in his veins. He’d paused just long enough to write Draco a note before leaving the Manor, and now, at just after four a.m., he was resolutely walking down the corridor in the heart of the MLE Prosecutorial Division. He arrived at Hermione’s office to find the door open, and Hermione seated at her desk, quickly scribbling something on a scroll.  
  
“Okay, I’m here,” he said brusquely. “Who is it?”  
  
She looked up at him, and he felt guilty for a moment when he saw the circles under her eyes and the way her hair, always wild, seemed even more out of control than normal. It was almost as bad as his, actually. She scowled at him.  
  
“I’d appreciate it if you saved the ‘big bad Auror’ routine for the suspect.” She sighed heavily and tossed her quill onto her desk. “And while I know who cursed the ring, I’m still not certain he’s entirely responsible.”  
  
Harry frowned. “What kind of shite is that, Hermione? If he cursed the ring, then he bloody well is responsible.”  
  
“Not necessarily,” she retorted, frowning, rubbing a spot between her eyes. She shook her head. “I just… have a very hard time believing he’d do this.”  
  
“Who is it?” Harry asked flatly. Hermione looked up at him, her bloodshot eyes wide.  
  
“Please, sit down, Harry.”  
  
Harry felt a fissure of dread snake through his anger, but he held his ground. “Who is it, Hermione?”  
  
She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “The magical signature is Ernie’s,” she muttered. “Ernie Macmillan.”  
  
Harry inhaled harshly, then felt as if he actually might need the chair in front of her desk. He locked his knees instead, his hand going out to brace on a bookcase. Shock made his ears ring.  
  
“Ernie Macmillan,” he repeated, as if saying it might somehow make it more believable. Hermione nodded. “My bloody, goddamned  _partner_ , Ernie Macmillan.” Hermione’s eyes were immeasurably sad as she looked at him. Harry’s hands curled into fists. Rage unlike anything he’d ever felt in his life literally made him see red. “I’m going to kill him,” he muttered. “I’m going to fucking kill him.” He turned towards the door. It slammed in his face, and he whirled on his heel. “Let me out, Hermione,” he said, his voice very low. She shook her head.  
  
“No, not until you listen to what I have to say.”  
  
“I’m going to find him, and listen to what the fuck  _he_  could possibly have to say,” he snarled. Hermione stood behind her desk.  
  
“Ron has already brought him in,” she said quietly. “He’s in holding room four, being questioned as we speak. But you aren’t going down there until you listen to what I have to say.”  
  
He clenched his teeth, but forced himself to take a deep breath and cross his arms. “I’m listening,” he muttered. She rolled her eyes, then sighed.  
  
“You won’t sit, just for a minute?”  
  
He narrowed his eyes. “Do not make me blow that door off of its hinges.”  
  
She crossed around her desk and sat back on it, her arms crossed at her chest. “Fine,” she said flatly. “Before you go off half-cocked and do something that you’ll really regret, I want you to listen to me, and  _hear_  me, Harry. Not just humor me.”  
  
He paused, then nodded once brusquely.  
  
“I want you to ask yourself; what possible reason could Ernie have to do this? You’re friends, aren’t you?”  
  
“I thought we were.” Harry’s jaw was so tight his mouth scarcely moved.  
  
“Has he ever said anything to you about your relationship with Draco, anything to make you think he didn’t approve?”  
  
Harry frowned. “Everyone disapproved, Hermione, save for you and the Weasleys. Everyone in fucking Britain thought they were entitled to an opinion.”  
  
“But, did  _Ernie_?”  
  
Harry glanced away. “Not that I remember, no.” In point of fact, Ernie had always been surprisingly easy going about the whole thing. He’d ribbed him, sure. But anything truly negative? Harry couldn’t remember. “But if he didn’t like it, saying something certainly would have tipped his hand, wouldn’t it? Doesn’t it make more sense for him to appear to think it’s just dandy, then get Draco out of the way?”  
  
“To what end?”  
  
Harry stared at Hermione. “What?”  
  
“To what end, Harry. You’re an Auror; check your anger for just a moment, and try to think like one. All crimes originate with  _motive_. Why would Ernie want Draco gone? Does he have a thing for you?”  
  
Harry grimaced. “No, Ernie’s married. His wife is expecting their first.”  
  
“Is it possible he’s in the closet, and has feelings for you?”  
  
Harry thought about it. “If he does, he’s hidden them really well.” He exhaled heavily. “Shit, Hermione. If his signature is on the ring, what other possible explanation is there?”  
  
She hesitated, then lifted her chin. “The Imperius curse.”  
  
Harry looked incredulous. “You’re trying to say that you think Ernie used a version of the Imperius on the ring because someone had used it on  _him_? Talk about far fetched, Hermione…”  
  
“What was on the ring wasn’t the Imperius curse, Harry. It was  _Aspicio meum volutatis_ , which is a good deal more sophisticated than the Imperious. And frankly, I’ve always liked Ernie, but that curse is over his head; he’s just not smart enough to have come up with it himself.”  
  
Harry stared at her. “Ernie isn’t stupid,” he said softly.  
  
“But he isn’t  _clever_ , either. You’ve told me yourself that sometimes he can be really dim.”  
  
Harry chewed his lower lip. “I need to question him, Hermione. I need to talk to him.”  
  
She stared at him, her face impassive. “Well, you know that isn’t possible, Harry. Shacklebolt will follow protocol; you can’t go anywhere near this case. You’re too personally invested.”  
  
Harry’s anger surged again. “This is my life we’re talking about here, Hermione. My life and Draco’s life.”  
  
Her face softened. “And that’s precisely why you can’t question him.” His arms uncrossed and he clenched his hands into fists. “You can --,” she went on, “—go down and watch Ron question him through the two way window, however. And I’ll go with you.”  
  
Harry clenched his teeth, but nodded.  
  


*****

  
  
“You’ve got to let me talk to Harry, Weasley. He can’t possibly believe this!”  
  
Ernie was sitting behind a simple wooden table, his hands clenched on the top, his full face flushed. Ron was standing not far from him, his arms crossed. Harry watched both of them through the two way glass, his hands propped on the ledge. Hermione stood silently at his side, but he could feel her eyes going from his profile to the window and back again.  
  
“You know that isn’t possible, Ernie,” Ron said. “Harry can’t be involved in this.”  
  
“But you’ve got to let me talk to him!” Ernie begged. “Weasley, why would I do this? Why? Harry is my friend…”  
  
Ron snorted. “Some friend you are, MacMillan, hexing his partner, sending him off to parts unknown. You know how devastated Harry was about this. How could you sit in the same office with him, day after day, after what you’d done?”  
  
“For fuck’s sake, I didn’t do it!” Ernie started to stand, but Ron took a half step forward, and he sank back into his seat. “Weasley,” he said, his voice imploring. “Why would I do this? It doesn’t make any sense!”  
  
“You’ve been an Auror long enough to know that sometimes crimes don’t make sense.” Ron shrugged. “How do I know what your motivation was? Maybe you’ve secretly got the hots for Harry and wanted Malfoy out of the way.”  
  
Ernie grimaced. “Gods, that’s just… I’m  _married_ >, Weasley. My wife is pregnant!”  
  
“Listen, mate, you wouldn’t be the first man to play both sides of the blanket, if you get my drift. Was that the problem, Ernie? Was working with Harry every day just too difficult because you wanted him? Was Malfoy in the way? Was your wife just not able to give you what you really needed, if you get my drift?”  
  
“That’s disgusting!” Ernie said, recoiling. “I’ve never cared what Harry did, or who he did it with, but I’m not like that, Weasley. I’m not!”  
  
“You sure are protesting awfully loud, Ern. Makes me think you might actually have something to hide…”  
  
“You’re accusing me of… Christ, I don’t even know what you’re actually accusing me of!”  
  
“The charge is  _Using an archaic curse or hex to cause undo influence_. In layman’s terms? You cursed the ring that Harry was going to give to Malfoy, causing it to create such an advanced state of paranoia that he left him. It was right clever, Ern. Way more clever than I ever would have given you credit for.”  
  
“But I didn’t do it!” Ernie shouted. “I never even saw the bloody ring.”  
  
Ron shook his head slowly. “Not true, Ernie. We all saw the ring. Harry had it in his desk drawer for two weeks before Christmas.”  
  
“I don’t remember seeing it, Weasley. I swear to Merlin.” Tears filled his eyes then.  
  
“Ernie, your magical signature was on the ring,” Ron said, almost gently. “You can’t fake that, you know it as well as I do.”  
  
Ernie put his head down on the table and began to sob, and Harry turned from the window.  
  
“I can’t watch this anymore,” he said softly. “Let me know when formal charges are filed.”  
  
She nodded, then reached out and touched his arm. “I am sorry, Harry.”  
  
He acknowledged her statement with a short nod. “Yeah, me too.”  
  
With that, he turned and walked out of the door.  
  


*****

  
  
Hermione watched Harry’s broad back, his head lowered, as he turned and left the small room where they’d been watching Ron interrogate Macmillan. This was hard on Harry, she knew; doubly hard because partners are supposed to have each other’s back, not betray one another. She sighed, and turned back to the window.  
  
“You might as well tell me the truth, Ern,” Ron said, taking a seat next to Macmillan, reaching out and laying his hand on his arm. “It’ll go better for you if you do.”  
  
Ernie sniffled miserably. “I don’t know the truth anymore,” he said, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “But I swear, if I did this, I don’t remember and I can’t think of a single reason why I would. I love Harry; not like  _that_ ,” he protested when Ron’s brows rose. “I love him the same way that you do, the way that everyone who works here does. I wouldn’t hurt him for anything; you’ve got to believe me. Gods, Kate and I were even going to ask Harry to be our baby’s godfather.”  
  
Ron studied him, then shook his head sadly. “I don’t know what to tell you, Ern. Your signature was all over that ring.”  
  
Ernie rubbed his face with his hands. “What a fucking mess. Weasley, you’ve got to believe me…” he said, then paused, his eyes opening wide. “Wait, wait…” He licked his lips nervously. “Wait. There is someone… Harry’s been getting these weird cards…”  
  
“What are you on about, Macmillan. Your signature is on the ring.”  
  
“I know, I know,” Ernie said. “But what if… you’ve got to see this stuff, Weasley, Harry’s been getting them for months, and they’re getting more and more weird. Personal, with sexual comments in them. Harry brushed them off, but what if…”  
  
“You’re fishing, Macmillan. Harry gets a lot of  _personal_  fan mail.”  
  
“Not like this,” Ernie protested. “I’m telling you, there’s something not right about this stuff.”  
  
“That doesn’t explain your involvement, Ernie.”  
  
“I know that!” he said desperately. “I can’t explain it, either. But I’m telling you, someone needs to look at those cards! I’ve thought so for months now, and…”  
  
Ron shook his head, but Hermione stepped forward resolutely and opened the door to the interview room. Both men looked up.  
  
“All right, Ernie,” she said briskly. “Don’t for one second think this changes anything, but you have exactly thirty seconds to tell me about these cards.”  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
Draco glanced at the doorway again, fidgeting with a small bottle of colored sprinkles on the granite counter top. Teddy was chatting merrily with his mother and his aunt as they cut out sugar cookies in the ancient Pagan symbols and slipped them into the oven, but Draco could only stare at the door.  
  
When he’d wakened in bed alone, his heart had slammed hard into his ribs. That was until he’d reached out and his hand had closed over a bit of parchment on Harry’s pillow.  
  


> Was called into the Ministry. I promise not to be long. I love you, Harry

  
  
It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and Draco doubted that it would be the last. Harry took his job seriously, and as an Auror, there was no real set schedule. He’d gotten used to it before. But this was different; he knew it. He knew that the only reason Harry would have left him now was because of something to do with what had happened to him, and his nerves had been on edge ever since. He’d tried to eat breakfast, which had been something of a waste of time; mostly, he’d just pushed scrambled eggs and kippers around the plate absently. And now that the cookie baking was underway, he was attempting to participate, but his mind was a million miles away.  
  
The cookies came out of the oven and were set on racks to cool and Draco’s attention was brought back to the effort when his mother reached over and caught his hand, her fair brows lifted. Draco had nodded, and leaned in to help thread ribbon through the decorated cookies so that they could be hung on the tree. When Teddy carefully picked up the plate of completely cookies and carried them into the family parlor, Draco followed, even though his eyes kept lifting to the nearest doorway.  
  
“Draco.”  
  
Teddy had come to him and was tugging on the hem of his jumper, his brown eyes wide.  
  
“Hang some higher for me, will you? My legs are too short, member?”  
  
Draco smiled faintly. He did remember. Teddy had been three, and he’d been too small to put the hat on the snowman. Harry had teased him, saying his legs were too short, but that they’d grow. He was astounded that Teddy could remember something from so long before.  
  
“I do, Ted,” he said, tousling hair that for the moment, at least, was white blond. “They’ve grown since.”  
  
“Yeah, but not enough,” he said, pointing at the red, white and gold decorated tree. “You can reach higher than me. Here.”  
  
Draco took the heart shaped cookie that Teddy held out to him, and stared at it nestled in his palm. It was haphazardly frosted with bright red frosting and covered with glittering sugar, and his fingers curled around it.  
  
“What have you got there?”  
  
Draco jumped and turned, finding Harry standing directly behind him. He was wearing his uniform, but his jaw was covered with dark stubble, and Draco felt an unmistakable stirring of need low in his stomach. Gods, he loved it when Harry had a day’s growth of beard on his chin, and it was much thicker now than it had been at twenty. He smiled slowly and held up the festive cookie.  
  
“Hmm,” Harry said, brows lifted. “I thought that belonged to me.”  
  
Draco’s pretended to look thoughtful. “I suppose it does, actually,” he murmured, stepping closer to Harry. Harry reached out and snaked an arm around his waist, pulling him into his body.  
  
“You look rested,” Harry said, touching Draco’s cheek with his free hand.  
  
“You don’t,” Draco countered, seeing the shadows in his green eyes. “Care to tell me what got you out of bed at an ungodly hour of the morning?”  
  
Harry studied his face, then shook his head slightly. “Later. It’s not important enough to spoil this.” He slipped the cookie from Draco’s hand, and reached out and hung it gently on the towering evergreen. “How’s that, Teddy?”  
  
The little boy smiled up at him. “Perfect!” he said brightly. Harry turned to look into Draco’s face.  
  
“He’s right,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss him gently. “Perfect.”  
  
Draco kissed him back, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that, for Harry at least, everything wasn’t perfect at all.


	20. Firelight Through Burgundy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this post:

“I never would have guessed Macmillan.”  
  
Draco was lounging against the headboard of his bed, several pillows at his back, his hands linked behind his head as he watched Harry try on a set of opulent hunter green dress robes.  
  
Harry’s brow had furrowed at the mention of his Auror partner’s name. “Neither would I,” he said softly, fastening a gold belt at his waist. “And I really don’t want to talk about it anymore, if that’s all right.”  
  
Draco shrugged, but Harry knew from his expression that they’d revisit it later.  
  
The robes were beautiful; the velvet was old and soft, and embroidered on the lapels and around the sleeves were runic symbols, all done in gold thread and accented with what he assumed were tiny diamonds. There were inner sleeves that came to a point on the back of his hands, and a sleeveless outer tunic made of the same hunter green velvet that went over the long robes , with mink trim down the open front and around the bottom hem. Harry slipped into it, then looked at himself in the full length mirror. “I look like Father Christmas,” he said wryly, turning to the side. The robes brought to mind several of the older portraits he’d seen at Hogwarts, of wizards from earlier centuries.  
  
“Father Christmas should only look so good,” Draco said, a soft grin pulling at his lips. “You fill those out far better than the last person who wore them.”  
  
Harry shot him a look from beneath his brows. “Do I even want to know?”  
  
Draco’s smile widened. “Probably not. Just look at it this way; at least it wasn’t my father. He thought the mink would clash with his hair.”  
  
Harry snorted, looking at his reflection again. “Are these diamonds?” he asked, holding up the sleeve. Draco’s affronted look assured him that they were. Harry turned back to the mirror; they did make his shoulders look very wide. And at least they weren’t too short at the hem. “Why am I wearing these, again?”  
  
Draco leaned forward, crossing his long legs. He was wearing loose black lounging trousers and a white jumper, and his hair touched the high collar and fanned across his forehead. The fit of the knitted top accentuated how angular his frame was at the moment, but his color was good and his eyes were bright.  
  
“You’re representing one of the four basic elements. Green --” he said, angling his head, “ --for the purposes of the Solstice ceremony, is the color of perennially growing things, and the mink is symbolic of the creatures of the earth. Full of new life. You have to remember; when the solstice ceremonies were first conceived, the early wizards were also farmers and hunters. Everything began and ended with the growing and birthing seasons, and the harvest. Solstice itself is a celebration of the belief that the sun will return, the earth will be kind, the crops will grow again, the game will be plentiful. All magic starts with the earth, and the energy that runs through it. It takes an enormous amount of energy for crops to seed, germinate, and grow. That in itself is a kind of magic.”  
  
Harry grinned at him. “I love when you go all ‘professor’ on me,” he teased. “It’s very sexy.”  
  
Draco shot him a wry look. “I knew you had a thing for Binns.”  
  
Harry laughed. “That is wrong on so many levels, I don’t even want to think about it.  
He turned away from the mirror, his hands on his hips. “And what element are you?”  
  
“Air,” Draco answered. “Silver and white.”  
  
“Which is perfect for you. I’d like to see those.”  
  
“You will,” Draco’s eyes warmed as he stretched out on the bed, his head resting on the palm of his hand. “Tomorrow night. I’d like for them to be a surprise.”  
  
Harry shrugged. “Do these pass inspection?” he asked, holding out his arms and turning slowly. Draco made a sound of approval.  
  
“Oh, yes,” he murmured, his lips curving.  
  
“Can I take them off now?” Harry asked, looking over his shoulder. Draco’s smile widened.  
  
“Please do.” He rolled to his stomach and propped his chin on his hands, clearly settling in to watch. Harry’s lips quirked as he pulled off the long over tunic, then unclasped the belt. He laid them carefully on the back of a chair, then began to pull up the robe.  
  
“There is absolutely nothing sexy about a man taking off a long dress,” he muttered, gathering yards of fabric in his hands before pulling the whole of it off over his head.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco said, his smile widening. “I think it depends entirely on what’s revealed as the dress comes off. And you, Mr. Potter, have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.” His light eyes sparkled as Harry turned the robe right side out and laid it on top of the tunic, leaving him in just his red boxer shorts. He felt Draco’s eyes move over his bare chest and shoulders, almost as if his hands had touched him. His nipples tightened, and he felt a pleasant heat begin low in his stomach. “And I,” Draco went on when Harry straightened, “am not even remotely tired.”  
  
“Is that so?” Harry said, his voice deep, and soft.  
  
“Uh huh.” Draco rolled to his back, stretching lavishly, a smile curving his lips. When he was done, he held out his hand. “And we have at least an hour before we have to join Mother, Andromeda and Teddy for dinner. Care to join me, first?”  
  
Harry walked to the bed and took his hand, sinking his knee onto the mattress. He leaned over, a slight smile teasing his lips. “And what did you have in mind, Mr. Malfoy?”  
  
“Well,” Draco drawled slowly, his free hand lifting to run slowly from Harry’s collar bone, down over his stomach, “as I mentioned last night before we were so rudely interrupted by my exhaustion, I’d still like to get up close and personal with these lovely muscles.” His hand snaked up around Harry’s neck and he pulled on him lightly.  
  
“How personal, exactly,” Harry murmured, allowing himself to be pulled to hover over Draco.  
  
“As personal as possible,” Draco responded, his eyes beginning to smolder. “I want you, Harry,” he whispered. “I want you on me, in me. I dreamt about the feel of your weight, pushing me into the bed, your cock in my arse, moving inside of me, making me writhe. I want it all –“ his hand tightened on Harry’s nape, and he pulled him down, “ – now.”  
  
“Pushy,” Harry said wryly, but he shifted so that he was straddling Draco’s hips, then lowered his body down slowly.  
  
“Oh,” Draco sighed when the fullness of Harry’s weight had settled on him. He spread his legs and lifted his knees, and Harry’s hips fell naturally between them. “Oh, God. You have no idea how good you feel, and how I’ve missed this.”  
  
Harry angled his head, and spoke against his lips. “Yes, I do,” he whispered, and kissed him.  
  
Draco opened his mouth to the press of Harry’s tongue, sliding his along side of it, around it. Draco wrapped one arm around Harry’s broad shoulders, and his other hand sank into his thick hair, as if he were anchoring himself as he kissed him back with all of the pent up longing inside of him. Harry’s cock twitched and began to fill, and he rotated his hips, dragging the swelling length over the soft bulge at the apex of Draco’s thighs. But not soft for long, Harry thought, even as Draco pressed up, rubbing himself against him with a soft moan.  
  
“That,” he whispered when he dragged his mouth from Harry’s. His hips canted up as he wrapped his legs around Harry’s hips. “More of that.”  
  
Harry wrapped both of his arms around him and buried his face in his throat, thrusting against him rhythmically. “This?” he muttered. Draco made a choked sound and began to move in counterpoint. Harry lifted his head enough to speak directly into his ear.  
  
“We going to rub one out, then? Like we did when we were kids, the first few times? Terrified we’d be caught, up against the wall at Grimmauld Place, or out in the back garden behind your mother’s rose bushes, so anxious to get off, so hot for each other that we didn’t even bother to open our trousers? Remember how you used to bite your own arm, so you wouldn’t make a sound?” Harry’s lips slid down the side of Draco’s throat. “I remember, Draco,” he said, taking a nip of the skin just above the collar of Draco’s jumper. “I remember how you used to pass out, you came so hard.”  
  
Draco groaned, his hand tightening in Harry’s hair, his heels brushing the backs of Harry’s thighs as he moved.  
  
The sharp pop from nearby startled both of them so much that they jerked, and Harry looked over his shoulder to find one of the Malfoy house-elves standing at the foot of the bed. He rolled off of Draco quickly, wincing when Draco didn’t immediately release his hair. Draco pushed up onto his elbows, his expression thunderous.  
  
“There had better be a damned good reason for this…” he said ominously.  
  
“The mistress is telling Mimsy to fetch the young master, and Mr. Harry Potter,” the elf said in her high little voice, looking anywhere but at the two of them. “The mistress said I is to be telling the young gentlemen that there is a Mrs Weasley here, and she is wanting to be speaking to both the young master and his…Mr Potter. I is to be telling you that she says it’s urgent.”  
  
Draco actually growled, he was so frustrated, collapsing back against the bed and hitting the duvet with his fist. Harry caught it in his hand and held it, leaning over and kissing Draco softly. “It’s all right,” he murmured against his lips. “We’ll go talk to Hermione, and then come back upstairs.”  
  
“By then, it will be time for dinner,” Draco groused.  
  
Harry sat back slightly, and smiled down at him. “Then after dinner. They’ve all got to go to bed eventually, love.”  
  
Draco looked up at him, then sighed explosively. He angled himself up onto his elbows again. “You,” he said crossly to the elf, who took a step back, “go and tell Mrs. Weasley that we’ll be right there. And that this had better be pretty fucking important.”  
  
The elf disappeared with a pop.  
  
“And you,” he said to Harry, not releasing his hand when Harry went to stand, “come back here and kiss me, and make it good. I may have to wait  _hours_  until I get you alone again.”  
  
Harry leaned back in. “When compared to years, it doesn’t sound like much, Draco,” he murmured.  
  
“I know,” Draco said with a huff. “But I’ve always been a spoiled brat. I want what I want when I want it, and I want you. Damnit.”  
  
Harry smiled and kissed him. “My spoiled brat,” he said fondly, then went to find his jeans.  
  


******

  
  
They found Hermione in the sitting room when they came downstairs, standing with her back to the fire, a smirk on her face.  
  
“Apparently I interrupted something,” she said when she saw them enter the room hand in hand. Harry had thrown on his jeans, t-shirt and socks; Draco had simply worn what he’d been wearing, waiting while Harry dressed for his erection to fade.  
  
“It’s all right…” Harry began.  
  
“You did,” Draco snapped instead. “And I’m so horny I could chew wood so this had better be good, Granger.”  
  
“Draco!”  
  
Draco whirled and saw his mother, aunt and cousin seated across the room. Harry glanced away, fighting a smile, but not before he saw the blush that bloomed across Draco’s cheeks.  
  
“What’s horny, Auntie?” Teddy asked in a piping voice. Hermione bit her lip as Draco cursed under his breath.  
  
“I think I’ll let Draco explain that one to you later, Teddy, dear,” Narcissa answered archly, and Harry rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.  
  
“So, what brings you here, Hermione?” he asked, attempting to steer the conversation.  
  
She straightened, her amusement fading.  
  
“Do you want to do this here?” she asked, glancing at Draco’s family meaningfully. Harry nodded.  
  
“It’s all right. Just don’t be too specific,” he gestured towards Teddy with his head, and Hermione nodded.  
  
“ _The suspect,_ " she began cryptically, "has been questioned under veritaserum. He has no conscious memory of using a spell on Draco’s ring, but his wand shows that he did.”  
  
“ _Priori incantatem_?” Harry asked. She nodded.  
  
“We had to go back four years, but yes, the spell was there.”  
  
Harry frowned thoughtfully. “But no conscious memory of doing it would mean…”  
  
“The Imperious.” Hermione nodded. “Yes.”  
  
“So, we’re back to square one, then,” Harry said in frustration. Draco took a step closer to him, his hand curling around his arm.  
  
“Not exactly.”  
  
Hermione reached into her robes and withdrew a large white envelope. “This arrived for you today, at your office in the MLE.”  
  
She held it out, and Harry saw his name scrawled across the front. He recognized the handwriting immediately, and stiffened.  
  
“Harry?” Draco said, frowning slightly.  
  
“Ernie told us about the others you’d received,” Hermione said mildly. “I’m afraid Kingsley is a bit peeved you didn’t report them.”  
  
Harry sighed. “They weren’t anything to get him involved with,” he said. “Just someone who’s a little… overly enthusiastic, that’s all.”  
  
“What?” Draco persisted.  
  
“It’s no big deal,” Harry said quickly. “Just someone who has a bit of a crush, apparently.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“No idea. The cards haven’t been signed.”  
  
“Cards?” Draco asked archly. “As in, more than one?”  
  
“Several, over the course of the last four years,” Hermione offered. Harry glared at her.  
  
“You aren’t helping here, Hermione,” he muttered.  
  
Draco released his arm and crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw tight. “And you didn’t think to say anything, when the primary way the caster of this spell has been communicating with  _me_  was through notes?”  
  
Harry stared at him. “I… hadn’t really put it together like that,” he said sheepishly. Draco glared at him.  
  
“And you’re the Auror?” he said tightly.  
  
Harry glanced at Hermione. “Thanks so much,” he growled.  
  
Draco looked at the envelope in his hand. “Are you going to open that?” he asked archly. Harry sighed, but slid his fingers under the fold.  
  
There was a plain white card inside, but there was something else as well; something small, and round. Harry turned the envelope over and shook it out, and a gold ring fell into his palm.  
  
“What the hell…?” he muttered.  
  
It was all he was able to get out before the ring glowed bright blue, then the familiar feeling of being hooked behind his navel and dragged away sent a shock through him. He heard Draco shout, and Hermione gasp, then he was flying through space in a dizzying rush. When it stopped as abruptly as it had begun, he fell heavily to his knees, his stomach rolling as he fought to catch his breath.  
  
Finally, the room began to settle, and he lifted his head. He was on his hands and knees on a patterned carpet in front of a fireplace with a cheerful fire burning on the hearth. There was a small table nearby, with two glasses of red wine on it. The firelight caught in the deep burgundy color of the wine, and sent flickering light through the glass. Harry swallowed heavily and started to push to his knees.  
  
“Hello, Harry.”  
  
The voice came from right behind him, and he jerked, then looked over his shoulder.


	21. Love Can Make You Crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this post:

Draco lurched forward as he saw the ring glow a brilliant blue, but when he reached out with both arms Harry disappeared, and he stumbled into the place he left behind. “No,” he gasped, his arms achingly empty. “No, NO!” He whirled on Granger, who had her wand out and was waving it frantically. “Why did you give him that? Why???” But she ignored him, her face a mask of rapt concentration. “Granger, do something!!”  
  
“I am,” she snarled between clenched teeth, then went back to whatever it was she was doing, her eyes frantic, her wand moving so quickly that it was a blur. Finally she paused for a moment, and several glowing symbols appeared in the air in front of her. They were there and gone so quickly that Draco couldn’t make sense of them, but she hissed “Yes!” in satisfaction before she turned to Draco’s mother, who had risen from the settee and was now moving quickly to her son. “Is this fireplace connected to the Floo network?”  
  
“Well, yes, I told Harry…”  
  
“Good.” Granger turned to go, then paused to look back to Draco, her eyes level. “We’ll have him back before you know it, Draco. I swear that to you.”  
  
“What the hell just happened?!” Draco demanded. “Damnit, talk to me!!”  
  
“Something unexpected,” Hermione answered. “I haven’t time now. Just understand; it’s going to be all right.”  
  
“It’s going to be all right?” Draco repeated. Even he knew that his voice had risen to a shrill decibel, but he couldn’t help it. He felt his mother’s hand encircle his arm when he took a step towards Granger. He tried to shake her off, but she was stronger than she appeared. “You will tell me what the bloody fuck just happened here…”  
  
“I don’t have time!” Granger argued back. “I’m sorry.”  
  
And with that, she turned to the fireplace, threw floo powder onto the flames, shouted “The MLE!”, and disappeared in a rush of green. And Draco cried out in anguish, lurching toward the flames. But he couldn’t move; his arms were being held and there was a weight around his knees. When he looked down he saw Teddy; he’d wrapped his arms around Draco’s legs and was holding on as tightly as he could, looking up at him with tears in his eyes.  
  
“Let me go,” Draco ground out between stiff lips. “Let me go, Teddy.”  
  
Teddy, his hair now a plain brown that looked odd on him, shook his head slowly. “’Mione told you to wait here,” he said stubbornly, his lower lip wobbling. “She said she’d bring Harry back, but you have to stay here. Don’t go, Draco,” he begged, his fingers digging into Draco’s thighs. “Don’t leave again. Please.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to…” Draco began. But between his mother’s grip on his arms, and Teddy’s around his legs, he really had no choice in the matter. He sank down to his knees, and wrapped the trembling child in his arms. “I won’t, Ted,” he whispered into his hair. “I won’t go.” He looked up at his mother, his throat so tight it ached. She looked down at him with almost painful sympathy.  
  
“He hasn’t got his wand,” he whispered, then clenched his eyes tightly shut as Teddy squeezed his neck.  
  


*****

  
  
Dennis Creevey looked down at Harry, his eyes avid. He was rubbing his hands nervously on his thighs, and he licked his lips as Harry slowly straightened.  
  
“Denny…” Harry murmured, looking around at the sitting room. There were several worn pieces of furniture that looked as if they’d seen better days, and candles burned on most of the surfaces. All in all, it was comfortable room, but it had an air of disuse about it. Harry’s eyes came back to Dennis when he sensed the shorter man take a step closer. Dennis stopped when Harry’s eyes fell on him, and he chewed at his lower lip. “What the hell is going on, Denny?”  
  
“Would you like some wine?” Dennis asked, gesturing toward two chairs before the fire, and the small table that held the two glasses of wine.  
  
“No,” Harry replied, his surprise morphing into irritation. “I would not like some wine. I’d like some answers. Now.”  
  
Dennis swallowed nervously. “There’s no cause to use that tone, Harry,” he said, even as his eyes darted nervously. “We’re friends, remember?”  
  
“People don’t send unauthorized portkeys to snatch their ‘friends’ from their homes, Dennis,” Harry said tightly, taking a menacing step towards the much smaller man. “Now tell me, what the hell is going on!”  
  
Dennis had his wand in his hand and pointed at Harry’s chest so quickly that Harry could only stare down at it, his body stiffening. Dennis shifted awkwardly, but his hand was steady.  
  
“Don’t make me hex you,” he said, his voice high, but resolute. He licked his lips. “I don’t want to, Harry, but I will if you leave me no choice. I wanted to do this…I don’t want to fight with you, but you have to listen to reason.”  
  
Harry looked at the tip of the wand pointed at him, then up into Dennis’s face, and for the first time he sensed something else behind the usually mild blue eyes. He lifted his hands, palm out, and took a step back.  
  
“Just… talk to me, Denny,” he said, his voice gentled.  
  
“Sit,” Dennis gestured toward one of the two chairs with his wand, and Harry nodded slowly, moving carefully, lowering himself into the chair.  
  
“Okay, I’m sitting,” Harry said. “Now, won’t you?”  
  
Dennis eyes darted around for a second, then he moved to the other chair and sat anxiously on the edge of it, but his wand remained trained on Harry’s chest. Harry watched it carefully, making no outward moves, but watching for a moment when he could.  
  
“Where’s your mum, Denny?” Harry asked, wondering if the woman was somewhere else in the flat. He could tell it wasn’t a house; there was faint noise from another unit, and traffic noise outside. He was somewhere in Muggle London, if he had to venture a guess.  
  
“She’s visiting my grandmother,” Dennis answered. “I stayed behind because I have to work…” He frowned. “I don’t want to talk about my mother.”  
  
“Okay,” Harry said agreeably. “What do you want to talk about?”  
  
“I want you to drink your wine!”  
  
Harry looked at the glass nearest him, then back at Denny, who was eyeing him with a new look in his eyes that made the skin between Harry’s shoulder blades twitch. So, there was something in the wine, then… He reached slowly for the glass.  
  
“Will you join me?” He asked, his hand hovering over the goblet.  
  
“You, first.” Dennis watched him as he picked up the glass.  
  
All Aurors underwent extensive training in recognizing poisons and illegal substances, and Harry studied the wine carefully as he lifted the glass. It was slightly cloudy, which could indicate a number of things, and smelled faintly of licorice as he lifted it towards his mouth. He pressed his lips to a tight seem, and pantomimed taking a drink. He let just the tip of his tongue taste what lingered on his lips, and the flavor on anise was pungent under the robust cover of the wine.  
  
He recognized the potion immediately, and his body tightened.  _flamma libidinocus_  was a powerful aphrodisiac, completely illegal, which had turned up in the systems of several recent rape victims. The potion’s most insidious quality was that it compelled the victim into complete and eager participation in their own attack, leaving their memory unimpeded when the effects of the drug faded. Harry had interviewed more than one broken, suicidal rape victim who somehow believed that they had ‘wanted it’. The drug had become the popular date rape drug of choice, and they’d been trying to trace the source for months. He doubted that Denny was the mastermind behind it; he’d probably just purchased some on the street. What he intended to do with it made Harry’s skin crawl.  
  
Harry glanced up at Dennis as he saw the other man take a drink of his wine, his mind racing. It was pretty clear that Denny had some mental issues; adding that potion to someone who was dangerously unbalanced, and holding a wand, was never a good combination. He’d have to keep his wits about him. He just hoped that the series of anti-intoxicant potions he took as a part of his job worked as well as the MLE thought they did.  
  
“So,” Harry asked mildly as he moved to set his glass down.  
  
“No,” Denny said abruptly, and Harry stilled, his arm outstretched. “You need to drink more.”  
  
“Okay,” Harry said, noticing that Denny’s eyes were already taking on a visible yellowish glow, a side effect of the potion. They were also going slightly unfocused, and Harry hoped he could use that to his advantage. He pantomimed taking another drink while Dennis watched him with bald longing. “So, what’s this all about, Denny?” he asked, trying to sound friendly, holding the glass in his hand.  
  
“I remember the first time I saw you,” Dennis said instead of answering the question, the glass held negligently in one hand, his wand in the other. “Of course, Colin had told me all about you; how nice you were, how friendly. I’d fallen in the lake, remember?” He gave Harry a lopsided grin, and for a moment Harry was forcefully reminded of that sopping wet first year, grinning cheekily from the depths of Hagrid’s enormous coat. He’d looked like a perky, half drowned mole rat, and Harry nodded.  
  
“I do remember,” he murmured. Dennis’s smile grew wistful.  
  
“You smiled at me,” he said, his voice distant. “And I knew, even then. You had the most beautiful eyes…”  
  
“You knew what, Denny?”  
  
Dennis eyes sharpened on his. “That we were meant to be together, of course,” he answered, sounding completely rational. “That it was only a matter of time, before we’d be together. You finished the Dark Lord, and I knew that any moment, you would look at me, and know what I’d known since I was eleven years old. You came out and everything, and I just knew the time was right…” His eyes clouded. “And then, you got distracted…” He frowned down into his wine and Harry shifted slightly towards the edge of his seat. Dennis’s eyes snapped back up, his wand lifting. “Don’t try anything,” he warned.  
  
Harry pretended indifference. “Just getting more comfortable,” he allowed his back to curl slightly, eased his knees apart. He’d watched enough people under the influence of  _flamma libidinocus_ ; he knew how their bodies would begin to relax, in the men how their balls would start to feel heavy. Dennis watched him avidly, licking his lips, and Harry had to fight to keep the distaste from his face. “You were saying that I got distracted?”  
  
“By Malfoy!” Dennis spat, his eyes flaring. It was disconcerting, how they seemed to glow. Harry could only hope that Denny didn’t notice that his weren’t. “Malfoy. Harry, what were you thinking? I mean, I can see the physical appeal, I suppose. I imagine he’s a decent piece of ass,” his grin was lazy and lecherous, and it was all Harry could manage not to snarl at him. “I’ll bet he sings a pretty tune when you’re up his arse. And, honestly, I didn’t mind so much when I thought that all you were doing was fucking him. In a way, it was sort of poetic justice; the man who defeated Voldemort, making the son of his right hand man grab his ankles.” His grin was cocky, but growing more unfocused. Harry watched him carefully, trying to ignore the fury his words would causing to build in his chest. “But then, you bought that ring…” Dennis shook his head. “I just couldn’t let you bond with him, Harry. You have to understand that.” His voice turned pleading. “You do understand, don’t you?”  
  
Harry ignored the question. “How’d you even know about the ring, Denny? I didn’t tell very many people…”  
  
He smirked. “You can thank Rita for that one. She’s got ears everywhere, and the jeweler slipped her the tip. I knew the moment you picked it up, two weeks before Christmas.”  
  
“But… how did you even know about that old spell? You did spell the ring, right?”  
  
“Oh no.” Dennis smiled brightly, and his madness was more apparent than ever. “No, Macmillan spelled the ring, not me.”  
  
“What did you use, Denny?” Harry asked, leaning forward to set the glass back on the small table. Dennis didn’t protest, and Harry decided to keep him talking. “A regular Imperius, or something more subtle?”  
  
He shrugged. “Just the regular one. Macmillan was easy.” He made a scoffing sound in his throat. “You people really should be more selective about who you let into the Aurors corps. That one is a light weight.”  
  
Harry made a non-committal sound. “The spell you had Ernie use; that’s pretty archaic stuff, Denny. How did you even know about it?”  
  
His smile was lazy. “You big, strong types,” he said, his own back curving, his legs spreading. Harry could see the bulge in his jeans, and knew the potion was moving through his system, making him beginning to feel loose, relaxed, his concentration being eroded by his growing desire. “You don’t seem to understand that for the rest of us, what we lack in physical prowess, we have to make up for with smarts.” He winked. “I’m very, very smart.”  
  
Harry nodded. “I’m sure you are,” he said mildly. “It would take a very smart man to be able to trick someone like Draco Malfoy. He’s very smart, too.”  
  
Dennis made a sound of disgust. “If he was so smart, he would have recognized that spell when it hit him, and taken off the ring. The compulsion I added was strong, but still…” He shrugged, then smiled again. “And it was a beautiful curse. I mean, to break it, all he had to do was take off the ring. But he was so bloody enamored of it, so sure it meant that he’d regained his place. You know that’s all you are to him, don’t you?” Dennis asked, setting down his wine and leaning forward. “An opportunity to rehabilitate the family name? Rita’s been on to him since the beginning…” He made a sound of disgust. “He doesn’t love you, Harry. He wants what you can get for him.” Dennis slipped to his knees on the floor and began to crawl forward, and it took everything Harry had not to recoil in his seat. “Not like me,” he said, moving inexorably closer. “I’ve been in love with you forever. All I’ve ever wanted was what was best for you. That’s why I had to do it; you understand, don’t you?” He looked into Harry’s face imploringly, and didn’t seem to notice when he didn’t agree with him. “I had to get Malfoy out of the picture; he was like a cancer, eating away at your good name, eroding all the good you’d done. He’d have taken you down with him, and I couldn’t allow that.” Dennis frowned slightly as he reached Harry, then went onto his knees at Harry’s feet. “I started sending the cards and notes, thinking that, surely, you’d figure out it was me. I mean, I was always around when they came, didn’t you notice? When Malfoy came back, I knew I had to be more direct…” He frowned, then shook his head, his hand going to Harry’s thigh. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he whispered, dampening his lips with his tongue. “You’re here now.” He caught Harry’s hand in his, and held it to his cheek. “I love you, Harry,” he said earnestly. “So much.” With a sly smile, he turned Harry’s hand and slid it down his body, pressing it over the bulge in his jeans. “Feel how much I love you?”  
  
Harry managed, just, not to curl his lips. He leaned forward, his eyes on Dennis’s, and allowed him to rub his hand up and down his erection, his eyes all but rolling in need and arousal, the wand in his other hand beginning to waver. He leaned into Harry’s touch, and when Harry’s hand drifted lower and found his balls, Dennis moaned in delight. He was so enraptured, he never saw what was coming.  
  
Harry tightened his hand around Dennis’s balls. “That’s not love, Dennis,” he murmured, almost gently. “That’s just a hard on.” He tightened his fingers viciously and twisted, and Dennis made a high pitched, gagging sound as his face contorted and he reached down, clutching his groin. Harry plucked the wand from his other hand, pointed it at Dennis’ temple, and muttered ‘ _Stupefiy_ ’ under his breath. Immediately, Dennis collapsed at his feet, his face still contorted in pain. Harry kicked him away with his feet roughly as he stood. “Pretty fucking stupid for a smart guy, Creevey,” he snarled, rubbing his hand on his own jeans as if to scrub the feeling of Dennis’s arousal from his palm.  
  
There were several loud pops around him and Harry whirled, Dennis’ wand lifted in front of him. Ron, Hermione and Shacklebolt all looked back at him, their own wands lifted, their stances battle ready. When they saw Harry with the wand in his hand, slowly, they began to ease.  
  
“Harry, I’m so sorry,” Hermione blurted immediately. “It was unforgivably stupid of me not to run a diagnostic on that envelope before I handed it to you.”  
  
“And pretty fucking stupid of me to open it without checking first,” Harry said. “Forget it, Hermione.”  
  
“But, I should have…”  
  
“Stop.” Harry went to her and pulled her into a one armed hug. “Stop. I’m guessing that the reason you’re all here is that you managed to throw up a tracking spell, which in the time you had, couldn’t have been done by someone stupid. So stop.” He kissed her temple. “It’s fine.”  
  
Ron stalked to Creevey and peered down at him in distaste. “So this is our culprit, huh?” He nudged him with his foot. Dennis’s face remained a mask of pain, his hand clutching his crotch. “Do I want to know why he’s holding his prick?” Ron asked wryly, looking up at his best friend.  
  
“Probably not,” Harry muttered. “And I need to get back. Draco’s got to be frantic…”  
  
“You need to come into the MLE,” Shacklbolt said brusquely, holstering his wand. “We’re going to need your statement.”  
  
“Fuck that,” Harry snapped, and his boss’s eyes widened.  
  
“What Harry means,” Hermione said quickly, shooting him a look and stepping into the breach, “is that I know enough about what’s going on to remand the suspect and begin processing him, and Harry can come in later to fill in the blanks, once he’s let his family know he’s all right.” She sent Harry a quelling look. “That’s what you meant to say, isn’t it, Harry?”  
  
“Right,” Harry ground out. “But you’re going to have to excuse me, sir. I’m going home now.”  
  
“No later than tomorrow morning, Potter,” Shacklbolt said firmly. Harry nodded and turned to Hermione. “I’m going to use this,” he said, holding up Creevey’s wand. “I’ll bring it in with me tomorrow.”  
  
She nodded, and sent him a slight smile. “Go home. They’re waiting for you.”  
  
He nodded, and without so much as a look down at the man who’d made his life a living hell for four years, Apparated away.  
  


*****

  
  
Draco paced back and forth in front of the windows, his eyes drifting occasionally to the lighted tree in the yard. It would figure prominently in the next night’s Yule celebration, but right now, he couldn’t be arsed to care. Harry had been gone for nearly an hour and a half, and time had moved, in his mind, almost as slowly as the four years he’d been gone. He twisted his fingers together, and tried to remember to breathe.  
  
A ‘pop’ from behind him had him whirling, and standing in the middle of the sitting room, in almost the exact location he’d disappeared from was Harry.  
  
“Oh, thank the Gods!!” Narcissa cried.  
  
“Harry!” Teddy launched himself at the man, grabbing his legs. “You disappeared, and Draco was going to go get you, but ‘Mione told him not to, but he was anyway, but I grabbed his legs and held on really tight, cuz I didn’t want him to disappear, too…”  
  
Harry had found Draco’s eyes, and looked into them. “Well done, Ted,” he said absently, touching the child’s head. He extricated himself from Teddy’s arms, touched Narcissa’s arm in passing, but his eyes never left Draco’s. When he was close enough, Draco made a rough, sobbing sound in his throat, and threw his arms around him. Harry pulled him into an embrace, and held him, hard.  
  
“Tell me it’s over,” Draco whispered against his ear. “Please. Just tell me it’s all over.”  
  
Harry pressed a lips to his cheek. “It’s all over,” he murmured. He felt a tremor move through Draco’s body, and when he looked over his head, toward the lighted Christmas tree in the yard beyond, he sent up a silent prayer of profound thanks to whatever deity was listening.


	22. Blessed Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this part:

When Harry arrived downstairs later that evening, wearing the heavy hunter green solstice robes, he was surprised by the size of the crowd of jovial revelers he found in the Manor’s large kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were there, reminding Harry again of how very much things had changed since the years before and during the war. Molly and Narcissa were chatting in a corner, Molly wearing the royal blue robes that Harry remembered from Bill and Fleur’s wedding, Narcissa in palest blue satin, her long blonde hair falling in waves to her waist. Arthur was laughing with George and Angelina; Angie was heavily pregnant with their first child, and she seemed to be almost glowing. She had that serene, secret smile that pregnant women sometimes wore, and Harry was glad that George had been able to find happiness with her.  
  
Neville and Ginny were in a corner, still very much newlyweds. She was feeding him a strawberry, and the look in his eyes left Harry in little doubt as to what had been going on before they’d arrived, or what would be shortly after they returned home. Pansy Parkinson, resplendent in purple, was chatting with Andromeda while Teddy hung from her hand, very handsome in his golden robe. And Blaise Zabini, of all people, was laughing with Ron while Hermione held Rosie up to look at the elaborate Solstice cookies that were laid out on huge platters. The sight of all of them, gathered around the kitchen, warmed his heart. Their presence seemed like an affirmation that he and Draco had managed to come through what had been happened to them, their families in tact. Thinking of him, Harry looked around the kitchen for Draco; he’d insisted that Harry dress in his guest suite because he had wanted his robes to be a surprise.  
  
“He isn’t down yet.” Harry turned as Hermione set Rose on her feet, then came around the counter toward him. She was wearing a lovely set of russet robes, and her hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, spilling into wild curls between her shoulder blades. “And don’t you look smart!” She eyed him with a smile.  
  
“I told Draco I think I look like Father Christmas,” he said a bit wryly.  
  
“Only if Father Christmas was hot,” she sniffed, and Harry laughed.  
  
“Don’t I look pretty, Harry?” Rose asked brightly, pulling out the sides of her pale pink robes.  
  
“Rose!” Hermione said with an indulgent laugh. “You’re supposed to let other people compliment you, not go fishing for them.”  
  
Her little nose wrinkled. “Fishing? I don’t want to go fishing, Mama. I just want Harry to tell me my robes are pretty.”  
  
Harry laughed again, and reached down to scoop the child up in his arms. “They are, very, very pretty. But not as pretty as you.” He kissed her loudly on the cheek, and she giggled as he set her on her feet.  
  
“Harry, Harry!” Ted shouted as he careened toward Harry.  
  
“Theodore, walk!” Andromeda called out behind him. Of course, Teddy didn’t; he ran into Harry’s legs and caught himself just before he could fall with handfuls of the green robes.  
  
“Look at me, Harry!” The little boy said brightly. “I’m the sun! Cool, huh?”  
  
He was wearing buttery gold robes, a golden pendant of a smiling sun around his neck.  
  
“Very cool,” Harry agreed.  
  
“What’re you?” Teddy asked, studying Harry’s robes.  
  
“Wearing a ball gown,” Ron quipped, popping a square of cheese into his mouth as he joined them. Hermione shot him a baleful look, and he chuckled. “Kidding, kidding. I know he’s actually dressed as a reindeer wrangler.”  
  
Teddy frowned even as Harry slyly flipped Ron two fingers.  
  
Hermione took half a step closer, keeping her expression neutral. “Just thought you’d like to know that Creevey has confessed to everything. He even waived his right to council, which simplifies things quite a bit. He’ll be sentenced in chambers right after the first of the year.”  
  
“Was this while he was still under the influence?” Harry asked wryly. Hermione looked faintly affronted.  
  
“You know I’d never do that,” she said firmly, then smirked. “Much as I might like to. It’s against—”  
  
“Regulations,” Harry and Ron said together. She rolled her eyes.  
  
“Someone needs to make sure that his mother is all right,” Harry said softly. “She already lost one son; it isn’t her fault this went the way that it did.”  
  
“Not for anything, Harry,” Ron said, beginning to wipe his hands on his robes, then stopping and reaching for a napkin when Hermione pointedly cleared her throat. “But Creevey’s mother is hardly your problem.”  
  
“I can’t look at it that way, Ron,” Harry said, shaking his head.  
  
“Which makes you infinitely more sensitive than some people I know,” Hermione said, looking pointedly at her husband. “And Kingsley and I have already talked about Mrs. Creevey. He went to talk to her himself.”  
  
“He’s a good man, Kingsley,” Ron said bluffly. Hermione’s expression made it pretty clear he wouldn’t be getting off that easily, and behind her back, Ron rolled his eyes. Harry swallowed a smile.  
  
“Have we all assembled?”  
  
Harry heard Draco’s voice and turned towards the door. He went very still, his eyes going wide.  
  
“Oh, my,” he heard Hermione breathe, but he didn’t glance her way. He was staring at Draco, trying to recall when he’d ever seen anything to compare to him in his life. He couldn’t think of a single thing.  
  
Draco was wearing white velvet robes trimmed with white fur, over a shimmering silver tunic that was belted around the hips with a heavy chain link belt, and he seemed to glow, standing there in the doorway. His hair was very nearly the color of the fur, and the velvet coat was accented down each side to the hem with silver stitching and small diamonds that glittered when he moved. “All here? Good, let’s gather in the solarium, then.” He lifted one arm, and the silver sleeves were so long they nearly brushed the floor.  
  
Their guests moved through the doors accompanied by happy chatter, and Harry held back so that he would be the last person to pass.  
  
“You like?” Draco asked Harry with a small smile, holding out his arms.  
  
“You look amazing,” Harry said softly. “Absolutely amazing.”  
  
“Well, couldn’t let the Earth out do the Air, now could I?”  
  
Harry leaned in and kissed him softly. “No chance of that.”  
  
Draco held out his hand, and Harry linked their fingers.  
  
The party paused inside of the open door of the solarium, and Draco supervised as Teddy solemnly handed each adult a small, lit candle. Through double doors that were open to the outside, Harry heard the sounds of drums and pipes begin just as Draco handed him a larger, dark green candle, as yet unlit. Draco held a white one in his hand, Narcissa a blue one, and Andromeda a red one that matched her claret robes. The other revelers went out into the night, headed toward the towering lighted tree in the middle of the courtyard, Hermione sending Harry a soft smile as she took Rose’s hand. Andromeda, Narcissa, Harry, Draco and Ted lingered behind for just a moment longer.  
  
“I’ve written down what you need to say,” Draco said, pulling a bit of parchment from his sleeve. Harry’s eyes widened.  
  
“I need to say something?” he asked, alarmed. Draco laughed lightly.  
  
“Relax, it will be fine. I’ll nod at you when it’s your turn.”  
  
Harry looked down at the words inked onto the parchment, and wondered how he was supposed to be able to read them in the dark, but at that point Draco was positioning him in line. Fortunately, he was at the end, and he followed the hem of Narcissa’s pale blue gown out into the darkness.  
  
At the foot of the towering lit fir tree was an altar, on which were lighted several candles and one tall, fat gold one, as yet unlit. There were several other things there as well; evergreen, holly, a bowl that appeared to hold a glittering substance, but Harry was too busy watching Draco to see where he was supposed to stand to take it all in. The drum and pipe music faded, echoing against the Manor’s high walls. There was a glowing circle drawn on the snow, and each of the four of them took up places opposite another; he and Draco facing each other across the circle, Narcissa and Andromeda doing the same. Teddy stood at Draco’s side, and Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen him so still. The rest of the guests closed in around them, standing in respectful silence.  
  
“Ancient wizards,” Draco said softly into the silence, but his voice seemed to carry, “saw the flow of time as circular, not linear, and the Changing Seasons were understood as a Great Wheel, the Wheel of the Year.” His voice sounded rich and warm, and Harry felt a shiver of pleasure snake down his spine. “Tonight we are gathered to observe the turning of the Wheel in this season, and the coming of age of a new generation of wizard.” He smiled down at Teddy, who grinned in return, looking every bit of seven years old for just a moment before he turned serious again. “Tonight we celebrate the Holy Night of the Winter Solstice.”  
  
“Our ancestors believed the people must help the Light to be reborn, by honoring this time of darkness. They were to watch and wait, holding hope in their hearts. The return of the light was not taken for granted. And the magical people never forgot how their very lives depended on its return, for all energy comes of the light, and all magic of the energy. While the wizards waited, they prayed and feasted. They decorated their homes so that the new light would find welcome and beauty in the new year. They exchanged gifts with one another in honor of the life-giving gift of the increasing light.”  
  
“Guardians of the wheel, announce yourselves.” Harry heard Arthur Weasley say, his deep voice resonant.  
  
“I am the East,” Draco said, “the place of dawn, ruled by the element of Air. I am the breath of Life, of speech and song. I watch over all the winged ones. I am the season of Spring, the season of birth and new creation surging forth.” He smiled at Harry, and Harry grinned back.  
  
“I am the South,” Andromeda said, “the place of mid-day, ruled by the element of Fire.” Suddenly, her red gown made sense.  
“I am the passion and laughter of life. Keeper of Earth's fertility. Guardian of all that walks and crawls on the Earth. I am the blessing of children, the keeper of truth and innocence. I am the season of Summer.”  
  
“I am the West, place of dusk, ruled by the Element of Water,” Narcissa said, her voice musical. “I am the guardian of life's water - from the oceans' depths to the waters of the womb that rocked you before your birth. I am the sweet rain satisfying the thirsty Earth, and keeper of all that live in water. I am the place of all that lies below the surface, of intuition and dreams. I am the season of Fall and I rule the time of Harvest.”  
  
Silence settled, and Draco turned and looked expectantly at Harry.  
  
“Oh!” he said, startling. “Me.”  
  
There were scattered chuckles, and Harry was glad that it was dark because he knew he was blushing.  
  
“We’re doomed,” George intoned, and there was more laughter.  
  
Harry looked down at the parchment in his hand, concerned because it was so dark, when the words began to glow on the page. He felt relief flow through him.  
  
“I am the North,” he said tentatively, then cleared his throat and went on, his voice stronger, “the place of midnight, ruled by the Element of Earth. I am the place of the ancestors and ancient wisdom, of all that has walked the Wheel through millennia and knows the way. I rule the time of Winter.”  
  
He finished and looked up to see Draco smiling at him. For some reason, that smile made him inordinately proud of himself.  
“Winter is the season of darkness,” Draco said, “this night the darkest of them all. And yet our people have always believed in the return of the light. We anoint ourselves this night in the light.”  
  
He turned and picked up the bowl off of the altar and Teddy following, he went to his mother, and dipped his fingers in the bowl. “I anoint you in the light,” he said softly, touching her forehead. A gleaming ‘x’ remained when he dropped his hand. She smiled up at him, her eyes full. He kissed her softly before moving on.  
  
He went to Harry next. “I anoint you in the light,” he said, then leaned forward and kissed him quickly. Harry smiled against his lips.  
  
“Oi, you going to kiss everyone, Malfoy?” Ron complained.  
  
“Time for a courtesy breath mint,” George quipped.  
  
“Boys,” Arthur said softly in warning, and his sons subsided but everyone else laughed.  
  
Draco made his way around the circle, then returned the bowl to the altar.  
  
Harry wasn’t able to concentrate on much after that. He was too busy listening to Draco’s voice, watching the fluid, graceful way his arms moved. His heart was full as he looked at him, so full his chest ached and his throat felt tight. When he thought of the last four years, of the time they’d lost, he wanted to be angry. But looking at Draco now, literally glowing with quiet happiness, he couldn’t manage to hold onto the anger. All he felt was an enormous, overpowering gratitude.  
  
They arrived at a point in the ceremony where Draco called for the extinguishing off all of the candles, and the clearing was plunged into darkness. They stood in the chill silence for a few minutes, and Harry could imagine the ancient wizards, standing in the darkness, praying for the suns return, for the rebirth of light, and magic. He found himself adding his prayers to those of the ancients, but his were of thanks.  
  
“We celebrate the return of the light,” Draco said, and across the circle, Harry saw a spark, and then the candle in Draco’s hand burst into flame. Next, Andromeda’s lit with no outward show of magic, then Narcissa’s. This time Harry didn’t need prompting; he touched the hawthorn wand in his sleeve and muttered  _Incendio_ , and the candle in his hand lit. And then, they all seemed to hold their breath.  
  
Teddy looked up at Draco expectantly, and Draco nodded before handing him the wand from his own sleeve. As Teddy took it, Harry found himself thinking of his own father, who should have taught him this ritual, and of Draco’s, who for all that he’d failed in other ways, had taught his son. And now how Draco, in the absence of Remus, was teaching Ted. Harry felt his eyes begin to sting, not only for what was lost, but for what remained, and he felt as proud as any father might as Teddy approached the one fat golden candle on the altar, and lifted the Holly wand in his hand.  
  
Harry curled his fingers around his own wand, and saw Andromeda’s hand move within her sleeve. If Ted wasn’t able to do it, which Draco had told him might be a possibility, there needed to be back up…  
  
But at Teddy’s murmured “ _Incendio!_ ” the fat candle burst into enthusiastic flame. The boy turned to Draco, a blinding smile on his face. “I did it!” he whispered joyfully, and Harry felt tears fill his eyes when Draco smiled and mouthed ‘you did’, and those gathered began to applaud.  
  
“A new generation of wizard is born,” Draco said. “The seasons turn, we bring the light, we raise the sun from dark of night." He looked around the circle with a soft smile. “Happy yule! Our ritual is ended. Merry meet and merry part and merry meet again. Blessed be.”  
  
“Blessed be,” the group responded  
.  
“Excellent,” George said. “Now comes the feasting!”  
  
Everyone laughed. “Honestly, Georgie,” Molly scolded, but there was no heat in it.  
  
The candles that had been floating overhead made a path to light their way, and the group moved in a much less somber fashion back to the Manor, which also began to glow with light, as if it knew the ceremony had ended. Harry rather thought that it did.  
  
Andromeda reached out her hand, and Teddy ran to her.  
  
“Well done, Ted,” she said, pulling him against her side.  
  
“It was cool, huh?” he said brightly. He looked up at Narcissa, who had joined them on his other side. “Auntie, can I light the plum pudding with Draco’s wand?”  
  
She laughed, the sound ringing merrily. “We’ll see.”  
  
Draco waited for Harry, then slipped his arm around his waist when they were side by side. Harry lifted his arm around his shoulders, and pulled Draco against him as they walked through the snow, back toward the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have combined several different solstice rituals to arrive at this one, and added the element of JKR’s canon that seemed to fit. Any mistakes are mine, and only respect was intended.


	23. Impervious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this part:

The  _feast_  that George had mentioned was served buffet style; roast goose, braised brussel sprouts and carrots, roasted white and sweet potatoes, and pork stuffing. Harry’s initial thought was that the Malfoy house-elves had been busy indeed, but when he muttered something to Draco, he assured him with a raised brow that every dish being served had been prepared by either Andromeda or Narcissa’s own hands.  
  
“Really?” Harry said in surprised. “I didn’t know your mother cooked.”  
  
“My mother is an excellent cook,” Draco retorted. “And it wouldn’t be much of an offering to the Gods if they had elves prepare it, now would it?”  
  
Properly chastened, Harry tried everything and was lavish in his praise to both women, who accepted his compliments graciously, but with knowing smiles.  
  
When time came for desert, Narcissa relented and allowed Teddy to light the brandy sauce on the plum pudding with Draco’s wand, while everyone stood around making the appropriate noises. It really was beautiful, Harry thought, served on a silver platter trimmed with holly and berries, the flames burning a bright blue. He ate more of it than he should have, and by the time the group retired to the drawing room for gifts, which was an integral part of the celebration, he was feeling very full and glad the green robes didn’t have a restricting waist.  
  
The children were given their gifts first, and they were received with much excitement. Ted received a set of miniature Hogwarts robes from Andromeda and a small racing broom from Harry, and a child’s book of potions from Draco and Narcissa. Rosie was thrilled with the frilly pink party dress Harry gave her and enthusiastic in her hugs; Harry sent a grateful smile to Hermione over the top of her head; she had actually picked it out for him. Small tokens were exchanged between the adults; the more formal gift giving was still reserved for Christmas day. These were more symbolic in nature. Draco gave his mother and aunt amulets that reflected their roles in the solstice; a brooch that showed a burning bush for Andromeda, and a bracelet that circled Narcissa’s wrist in rolling silver waves.  
  
“Having you back is gift enough,” Narcissa murmured as she hugged her son, tears in her eyes. Harry could not help but agree.  
  
Still, he turned to Draco with a teasing smile. “What, no brooch for me?” He murmured. Draco’s smile was slow and sent a sizzle of heat straight down Harry’s spine.  
  
“You’ll get your gift later,” he murmured, and Harry shifted a bit uncomfortably in his chair.  
  
After gifts, Teddy and Rosie were allowed to bring in a small charred branch that was festooned with pine, holly and red ribbons, and they solemnly lay it on a huge log in the hearth that had yet to be lighted.  
  
“That’s a remnant of last year’s Yule log,” Draco whispered when Harry shot him a quizzical look. “It’s used to light the log this year, a tribute to the continuity of all things in nature, a tribute to the light. This years log will burn through the night tonight, and throughout the holiday celebrations.”  
  
“It will last for three days?” Harry said skeptically.  
  
Draco smiled at him and leaned into his side. “Someday, I’ll actually get you to remember that you’re a wizard.” His lips quirked up on one side. “With magic, all things are possible, Potter. Even long burning oak logs.”  
  
Harry smiled as Arthur, as the oldest man at the celebration, had the honor of lighting the Yule log. When it was burning merrily, the guests began to take their leave.  
  
Molly kissed Harry on the cheek and Arthur shook his hand, and they repeated the gestures with Draco.  
  
“It’s been years since we’ve participated in a Solstice ritual,” Molly said. “Thank you so much for including us.”  
  
“You are Harry’s family,” Draco said simply. Molly was sniffling as Arthur escorted her away.  
  
George cuffed Harry bluffly on the shoulder, then smirked at Draco.  
  
“Bet you’re anxious to get this one off alone, eh mate?” he teased. Draco smirked.  
  
“You’ve no idea,” he said dryly. “Leave so that I can, would you please?”  
  
“Draco!” Harry scolded mildly.  
  
Draco looked at him, his eyes round. “What?”  
  
Harry shook his head, and George and Angie were chuckling as they left.  
  
Hermione hugged Harry while Ron held a sleeping Rosie in his arms, then turned to Draco. “I’m so glad that you’re back,” she said to him, tears brimming. “He was lost without you.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes tightly as he held her. “I was lost without him,” he said into her hair, and when she stepped back, their eyes met for a long, telling moment.  
  
“Happy Yule, Malfoy,” Ron said, offering his free hand. Draco shook it was a genuinely fond smile, and touched the sleeping child’s curls gently.  
  
“Goodnight, sweet Rosie,” he whispered near her ear. Harry was certain she smiled in her sleep.  
  
Andromeda ushered a protesting Teddy up to bed; he said he wasn’t tired, even as he knuckled his eyes. Narcissa kissed both Harry and Draco before leaving, her hand stroking lingeringly over her sons arm as she said goodnight. When she’d left the room, Draco turned to Harry with a soft smile.  
  
“Alone at last,” he murmured, stepping closer. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for hours.”  
  
“I’ve wanted to do a good deal more than kiss you ever since I saw you in those robes,” Harry muttered, slipping and arm around Draco’s waist and pulling him close. He angled his head and leaned in, and Draco met him halfway, soft lips parted in welcome.  
  
Harry kept the kiss soft, his mouth moving gently, his hand curving around Draco’s back. Draco felt thin but solid under his hand, and when he turned more fully into Harry’s body, his arms lifting to curl around Harry’s neck, Harry murmured against his lips when he felt Draco’s arousal press against his own. Draco pulled back and looked up at him, his eyes full. “Look at the windows,” he whispered, and Harry turned his head.  
  
There was a bank of windows across the room, and they were reflected in them as if they were standing before a mirror; Draco, slender and glowing in white, Harry, darker, broader, his black hair and tawny skin a startling counterpoint to Draco’s lightness.  
  
“You’re so beautiful,” Harry whispered.  
  
“We’re beautiful,” Draco corrected. “Let’s go to bed.”  
  
Harry smiled. “Soon,” he answered, his hand stroking up Draco’s spine. “I have something I’d like to give you, first.”  
  
Draco smiled brightly. “I love presents!” he said, his eyes shining.  
  
“I know that you do,” Harry murmured. “I just hope you feel that way about this one.”  
  
Harry took a step back, and reaching into a deep pocket in his robes, he withdrew a small black velvet box. Draco stared at it, his eyes wide.  
  
“As you’ll recall,” Harry said, frowning thoughtfully, “we did this once before, on Christmas eve four years ago. That time didn’t turn out so well, but--” he looked into Draco’s eyes, and slowly dropped down onto one knee, “— if you’ll still have me, I’d like to try it again.” Slowly, he opened the small box and nestled on the black velvet lining was the beautiful platinum and diamond ring. He placed the box on his palm even as Draco’s hand drifted up to his mouth. “I’ve had the best curse breakers that the Ministry has on this ever since you took it off, and I’d understand if you’d rather have a different ring, but…” Harry shrugged. “This one has now been rendered not only curse free but impervious to any others, and that’s how I’d like to think of us. Curse free, Draco,” he stared into the light eyes, his own solemn, “and impervious to any others. Will you honor me by becoming my bonded mate?”  
  
Draco closed his eyes tightly for a moment, his hand over his mouth, then he took a deep breath and nodded. He held his hand out to Harry, and it was trembling. Harry removed the ring from the box and carefully slipped it onto the third finger of his left hand, then bowed his head and kissed Draco’s hand, right above the ring. When he stood, Draco threw his arms around his neck and squeezed, hard.  
  
“I love you,” Harry whispered against his ear.  
  
“Thank the gods,” Draco breathed. “I love you, too.” He held Harry tightly. “I never dreamed I’d be this happy, ever again.”  
  
“Neither did I,” Harry replied, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, holding the slender body in his arms close. Slowly, he smiled. “It feels bloody amazing, doesn’t it?”  
  
Draco laughed, and the sound was so free and full of joy that Harry could only join him.


	24. The Fortunate Ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this part:

Sex with Draco had always been one of the most profoundly pleasurable things that Harry had ever done. Oh, sure, the first few times were awkward, but then, they’d both been so desperate and horny that neither of them had really noticed. And they hadn’t actually had  _sex_  initially; rubbing one out against a wall or frotting on a couch was heady when you were eighteen, but it hadn’t been until they’d managed to spend a leisurely weekend in the huge bed in Draco’s suite, a weekend when Narcissa had been gone and they’d had the house to themselves and hours spent gloriously naked, that he’d understood what sex actually could be.  
  
But facing the huge bed now, with Draco standing at the foot in the gorgeous white robes, holding out his hand, Harry found himself suddenly anxious.  
  
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” he admitted softly. “But I’m really nervous.”  
  
Draco angled his head and took a step closer to him, his hand coming to rest in the middle of Harry’s chest. “You are? Why?”  
  
“I…” Harry hesitated. “It’s been four years, Draco.”  
  
Draco glanced down, his long pale lashes hiding his eyes. “And… there hasn’t been anyone…” His words trailed off, and he bit his lower lip. Harry frowned.  
  
“No,” he said firmly. “Why would you think that?”  
  
“You thought I’d left you, Harry,” Draco murmured, then looked back up at him. “In the most callous way possible. I’d not have blamed you.”  
  
Harry lifted his hand and cradled Draco’s jaw in his palm. “Yes, I thought you’d left me,” he said softly, his thumb touching Draco’s lower lip. “But I also never stopped hoping that you would come back. I didn’t want anyone else, Draco—” his voice dropped to a whisper, “—I’ll never want anyone else.”  
  
A slight smile pulled at Draco’s lips. “For a man who says he’s nervous, you certainly know the right things to say.” He lifted one hand and curled it around Harry’s neck, pulled him in, and kissed him.  
  
Initially, the kisses were unhurried; long sweeps of tongue, heads angling, breath mingling. Hands slipped down over velvet covered spines, around lean waists, over angular hips. For the longest time, it was enough; renewing their familiarity with the sweet taste of one another, the slow pace allowing them to discover once again just how absolutely perfectly the other fit. Harry was convinced that no one would ever feel as right in his arms as Draco did; no one would respond as completely, or know without ever having to be told just when to turn his head, when to open his mouth further, when to press in just a bit closer. And even with the leisurely pace, arousal was inevitable. Harry’s hands slid from Draco’s back to his arse; Draco pressed in, his hips angling forward, his legs spreading when Harry slipped his thigh in between them. And that was when the heavy velvet robes became a hindrance.  
  
Harry pulled out of a long, breathless kiss when his knee only went so far and then encountered the unforgiving fabric. “Bloody annoying,” he muttered, reaching for the robes at Draco’s shoulder and pulling.  
  
“Stop, stop,” Draco said softly, laughing. “These are as old as this house, and if they get damaged mother will have my head.” He reached into his sleeve and withdrew the holly wand, and vanished their clothes save for their pants. Harry wasn’t usually fond of disrobing spells; he rather liked to do things the old-fashioned way. But in this case, he whole heartedly approved. He gave Draco a cheeky smile.  
  
“And you left the pants because…”  
  
“I remember how very  _hands on_  you are,” Draco teased. Harry grinned, then pushed him gently in the middle of his chest, pushing him down onto his back. He ran his hands from Draco’s shoulders, down over his chest, his thumbs pausing to stroke pale pink nipples that instantly rose up under his touch. Draco closed his eyes, his back arching.  
  
“Hands on,” Harry murmured, then leaned forward and flicked one nipple with the tip of his tongue. “And… not just hands.” He pulled the nipple into his mouth and sucked on it, and Draco grunted softly, his hand coming to rest on the back of Harry’s head, his fingers slipping into the soft strands of his hair.  
  
While Harry’s mouth moved to the other nipple, his hands slid down over Draco’s almost concave stomach, his thumbs tracing over his hipbones. Privately, Harry decided to make putting some weight back on Draco one of his first priorities; he was very thin. But he felt tensile and strong under Harry’s hands, and moved with the same fluid grace that had always made Harry’s head spin, and his cock hard. He slipped his fingers inside of the waist band of Draco’s silky boxers and pushed them down his legs, pausing to remove them over Draco’s narrow feet and throw them aside before leaning back in and dragging his tongue down the center of his stomach. When he pushed the long legs that were hanging over the foot of the bed apart and knelt between them, Draco pushed up onto his elbows and, looking down the length of his pale, angular body, gave Harry a slow, seductive smile. Harry returned it, then holding his gaze, licked up the underside of the elegantly arched prick that lifted from the nest of pale curls and curved almost to Draco’s navel. Draco’s eyes rolled closed for a moment and he hummed in pleasure. When Harry took the pink head of his cock into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it, Draco flopped back down onto his back, a satisfied sigh moving through him.  
  
“Gods, I missed your mouth,” he said, his fingers once again in Harry’s hair. Harry hummed around him, relaxing his throat and taking Draco as deeply as he could, and Draco gasped, his hips lifting. Harry pressed him down and held him still, and began to move slowly up and down his length, his hand stroking in concert with his mouth. Draco’s fingers tightened around strands of Harry’s hair as his body began to shift restlessly. When Harry tasted the first traces of pre-come on his tongue, he pulled back, one final lick to the tip of Draco’s cock, then grabbed his hips and flipped him onto his stomach.  
  
Draco gasped and stiffened for a moment, until Harry grabbed his arse cheeks in his hands and pushed them apart. Draco lifted his head in anticipation of what was coming, his shoulders stiff and his fingers spreading on the duvet. When Harry leaned forward and blew warm air over his tightly furled opening, Draco’s long toes curled.  
  
“Harry,” he groaned.  
  
“Hmmm?” Harry kissed the underside of Draco’s left arse cheek, just at the crease at the top of his thigh. Draco shifted restlessly, and Harry knew his cock was trapped between his belly and the soft bedding.  
  
“Don’t tease,” Draco complained, arching his back, pushing his bum back. Harry blew across his entrance again, and Draco hissed.  
  
“Not teasing,” Harry murmured, kissing the underside of the other arse cheek. “Just taking my time.”  
  
“You’re driving me mad.” Draco pushed back again, and Harry saw his sphincter flex.  
  
“Am I?” he breathed, running the tip of his nose along the crease between Draco’s buttocks. “So sorry.” He flicked out his tongue and grazed the dusky pink flesh before pulling back again, and Draco hissed.  
  
“Harry,” he said, his voice desperate. “Please.”  
  
Harry smiled and pressed another soft kiss to the back of Draco’s thigh. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”  
  
This time, there was nothing teasing about way he pressed his tongue against the tightly furled flesh, and Draco moaned, his hands fisting in the duvet.  
  
Harry took his time, working the tight muscle until it began to relax, until his tongue began to feel tired, until Draco was panting and writhing. Harry pulled back, sucking on his fingers until they were slick, then pressed his index finger inside of Draco’s clinging heat, turning his hand palm down, feeling for the small, tight bundle of nerve endings. He knew he’d grazed it when Draco’s back arched and he cried out, his shoulders tensing.  
  
“There?” Harry asked, doing it again. Draco jerked, then nodded raggedly. Harry withdrew his finger, then pressed in with two, unerringly finding the sensitive spot again.  
  
“Oh, Gods,” Draco moaned. “Please, Harry.” He ground his forehead against the bedding. “Please.”  
  
“More?” Harry kissed his right arse cheek, then skimmed it with his teeth as he moved his fingers in and out slowly. Draco nodded, the motion jerky. Harry pulled his hands back, spit on his fingers, and slipped back in with three. Draco stiffened for a moment, but when Harry skimmed his prostate, he pressed his face into the bedding and gasped, his back arching. Harry didn’t move his hand, waiting. Finally Draco pushed back against it, taking more into himself, beginning to rock back and forth.  
  
“Harry,” he gasped. “I want you inside of me. Please.”  
  
Harry’s prick, already almost painfully hard, gave an emphatic twitch, and Harry pulled his fingers out slowly, then stood and ran his hand up Draco’s spine.  
  
“You need to get further up on the bed, love,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of Draco’s neck. Draco pushed up onto his hands and knees and crawled forward until he was in the middle of the bed then looked over his shoulder. His eyes looked wide and unfocused and his lips swollen from biting them, and Harry thought he was the single sexiest thing he’d ever seen in his life. His cock throbbed. “On your back,” he said gently. “I want to look into your eyes.”  
  
Draco rolled to his back with satisfying speed, and Harry walked around the bed, pausing to take lube from the drawer in the small bed side table where it had always been. He crawled up onto the bed on his knees, then lifted one of Draco’s long legs, pressing his knee toward his chest and holding it there. Uncapping the bottle with his thumb, he glanced down and upended the bottle, letting some of the clear gel spill directly onto the puckered flesh. Draco jerked.  
  
“Cold,” he gasped.  
  
“Sorry,” Harry said, closing the bottle and tossing it aside. “I’ll warm it up for you, I promise.” He reached down and began to spread the lube, pushing his now slippery fingers back inside and Draco sighed, his eyes drifting closed and his breathing going shallow. Harry withdrew his fingers and slicked them over his cock, then lined himself up, and paused.  
  
“Draco,” he whispered. Draco’s eyes shot open and he looked up at him. “There you are,” Harry said with a smile. “Stay with me love, all right?”  
  
Draco nodded raggedly, his hands reaching out to grip Harry’s biceps. Harry pressed forward, the mushroom head of his cock exerting pressure against Draco’s opening until the muscle suddenly gave, and he slid inside.  
  
The groaned together; Draco because of the slight burn but more from the feeling of aching fullness, Harry from the tightness and the clinging heat that made him want to thrust hard and fast. Draco’s fingers dug into his arms, and he managed to hold still, but sweat beaded on his forehead and his muscles began to shake before Draco finally sighed, his fingers relaxing.  
  
“Okay?” Harry asked, his voice raw. Draco nodded, his eyes level. Harry pulled back slowly and pushed back in, and Draco bit his lower lip, but he didn’t look as if he were in pain. When Harry reached between them and took Draco’s cock in his hand and began to stroke him in time with each slow thrust, Draco’s lips fell open on a silent sigh.  
  
Harry was able to maintain a slow, steady pace for quite a white, but Draco remained so tight, and the drag and pull on his cock was driving him mad. He began to move faster, his fist tightening around Draco’s prick, and he heard Draco’s breathing quicken.  
  
“Are you close?” he asked, staring down into the silvery eyes. Draco nodded; his fringe was stuck to his forehead in damp clumps and his cheeks were flushed, and he looked so amazing that Harry felt his heart swell. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, arching his back and leaning down to kiss him. Draco slipped his hand around his nape and held him, opening his mouth to the press of his tongue, wrapping his long legs around Harry’s waist.  
  
“Hold me,” Draco said against Harry’s ear when their lips parted. “Hold me, please.”  
  
Harry slipped his hands under Draco, wrapping his arms right around him, one across his shoulders the other around his waist. He could feel Draco’s hard cock between them, rubbing against his stomach with each rolling thrust.  
  
“Yes,” Draco gasped, his arms tightening around him. “Only harder, Harry. Don’t hold back. Harder and faster.”  
  
Harry took him at his word and let himself go, driving into him in a punishing pace. The bed began to squeak and the headboard bounce off of the wall, and still Draco urged him to go harder, faster. Just when it became too much, when his balls began to tighten and Harry felt pressure building at the base of his spine, Draco cried out and stiffened, shuddering in his arms. Harry felt the warm wetness of Draco’s release between them just as his own orgasm spilled from him and he cried out, his back locking, his body shaking as he came harder than he could ever remember. It seemed to last a long time, and they strained together until almost as one, they fell limp, their breathing loud and ragged, their bodies trembling with exertion.  
  
Finally, Harry rolled to the side, taking Draco with him. They lay that way for several minutes, still joined, holding one another close. Finally, Draco pressed his forehead against Harry’s chin, and Harry heard him swallow.  
  
“That was…” he began, his voice rough. He seemed at a loss.  
  
“Yes, it certainly was,” Harry provided. Draco chuckled, and they fell silent again.  
  
Just when Harry thought that Draco might have dozed off, and he was in danger of doing the same, Draco shifted until his lips were near Harry’s ear.  
  
“I love you,” he breathed, his hand moving against the damp skin of Harry’s back, “more than I did before, and I’d not have imagined that was possible.”  
  
Harry tightened his arms around him. “I know,” he said. “I feel the same.”  
  
“Aren’t we the fortunate ones?” Draco whispered, and Harry nodded, turning his lips into Draco neck.  
  
They were, indeed.  
  


*****

  
  
The next day, it was long after they’d opened gifts, had brunch, and spent lazy hours lounging around the drawing room in monogrammed pyjamas and robes. Everyone had retired to dress, and they had gathered back in the sitting room, the scent of the turkey and all of the assorted accompaniments for dinner wafting through the air, when Draco looked over at Harry and caught his eye. Harry smiled slightly and nodded, and Draco stood, reached into the pocket of his trousers and looking at his mother, slipped the platinum ring onto the third finger of his left hand. Narcissa stiffened, her mouth falling open, her eyes wide.  
  
“Draco,” she said, sounding breathless. “Does that mean…?”  
  
“Yes, mother,” he said, his smile spreading over his face. “Just as soon as you can arrange everything, Potter plans to make an honest man of me.”  
  
Narcissa, who to Harry had always seemed the very picture of elegant decorum, did the absolute last thing he’d ever have expected. She burst into tears and jumped out of her seat, running to Draco, who caught her in his arms and held her, his eyes tightly closed. Andromeda fished a handkerchief out of the pocket of her robes and held it to her nose, her own eyes swimming.  
  
Teddy, who had been playing quietly with his new Quidditch action figures on the floor near the tree, looked up at Harry and frowned.  
  
“What the matter with Auntie and Gramma?” he asked, small nose wrinkled. Harry smiled softly.  
  
“They’re just happy, Ted,” Harry answered.  
  
Teddy rolled his eyes. “Girls are weird.”  
  
Harry managed, just, not to laugh.


	25. The Blessing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’m borrowing the Pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice and adding in a dash of HP canon, and my own take on a wizarding celebration. No insult is intended by doing this; I have enormous respect for the pagan traditions, and find myself learning more every time I read about them. In fact, as a Christian, I’m amazed by how much we ‘borrowed’ from people here long, long before we were.
> 
> Prompt for this part:

They’d arrived in Paris the afternoon before, and when Draco had opened the curtains in their hotel room that morning, they’d seen the City of Lights covered in a dusting of pristine snow. There had been snow in London when they’d arrived at the International Portkey Office, although, International seemed a bit of a misnomer when they were just Portkeying across the bloody channel. Harry had commented wryly that they could have Apparated, but as an Auror, he had to get authorization to Apparate out of the country, and they never would have allowed him to side-along Draco. So, when they’d decided on the date of their Bonding, he’d gone through the correct channels and ordered an International Portkey. And now, they were in Paris for the next week, then off to a castle in the south of France that had been turned into a Wizard resort destination. Harry had only been allowed two weeks leave, but Draco hadn’t complained. In fact, Draco had been thrilled he’d been able to get any time at all, and had planned the trip accordingly. They were both just relieved that they’d be out of the country when the news of their formal bonding made the papers.  
  
They’d agreed to give one interview, and that had been to Luna, who had taken over the reigns of the  _Quibbler_  and turned it into an actual newspaper, albeit an eccentric one. Draco had argued that giving an interview voluntarily would prevent the rags from following them everywhere they went for the next six months; Harry had agreed to give the exclusive to Luna because he knew that it would piss Skeeter off. And after the way Dennis Creevey’s trial had been handled by the  _Prophet_ , pissing Skeeter off had become something that Harry enjoyed almost  _too_  much.  
  
Rita, the nasty bint, had somehow managed to twist the story of Dennis’s obsession into Harry’s having toyed with his affections and Draco’s disappearance as a voluntary exodus for  _personal reasons_. Their friends and family had been outraged, but Harry and Draco had decided to let it go; Hermione was a respected key witness for the prosecution and the trial had only lasted three days. Dennis was found guilty of illegally cursing the ring, and by extension Draco, and performing the Imperious on Ernie Macmillan, and sentenced to five years. Ultimately, Ernie was not charged and restored to his job as an Auror. In light of Creevey’s mother’s failing health, Harry had asked the Wizengamot not to send him to Azkaban but to place him in an in-patient mental health facility, which had been done. Last Harry had heard, he was receiving counseling and anti-delusion potions, and his mother was able to visit him; it was the most he was willing to do, and he only went that far at Draco’s urging. They were so happy, Draco had reasoned calmly. They could afford to be magnanimous. Harry had agreed… begrudgingly.  
  
And now they were honeymooning in a picture-book pretty, snowy Paris. They’d had a wonderful dinner in a small but elegant Wizard restaurant that Narcissa had suggested, and had decided to walk back to their hotel to work off some of their fine meal. Draco was wearing a full length slate blue overcoat over a dark suit, white shirt and tie, a scarf tucked around his neck and his fair hair shining, and Harry was dressed in a black leather trench coat over black slacks and a black high necked jumper. They were walking slowly beneath the Eiffel tower, their arms linked, Draco leaning into Harry’s side, leaving a close double set of footprints behind in a pristine layer of snow that had fallen while they were at dinner. It was not yet fully dark, and the sky along the horizon looked as if the cloud cover might be thinning. The lights on the tower had just come one, and it looked almost magical in the twilight.  
  
Draco inhaled deeply, then sighed, and it was a satisfied, happy sound. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, looking up at the complicated construction of girders and support beams above them.  
  
“It is,” Harry agreed. “Very beautiful.” But he was looking at his lover’s profile, and the corner of Draco’s lips quirked upwards.  
  
“I meant the tower,” he murmured. Harry smiled.  
  
“Oh, yes. Well, that, too.”  
  
Draco shot him a look from the corner of his eyes. “I think Paris has turned you into a sloppy romantic, Potter,” he teased.  
  
“I don’t need Paris for that,” Harry said agreeably. “I can be a sloppy romantic in London, as long as you’re there.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes, but he looked secretly pleased.  
  
They continued to move slowly, their arms linked, their hands in their pockets. There were few people out walking, but as they crossed the massive square beneath the tower, Harry noticed another couple approaching, walking as they were, their arms linked, bundled against the cold in heavy coats and scarves. They were fairly near when he realized that it was two men, walking companionably arm in arm, their faces relaxed in soft smiles, their grey heads close. As he watched they looked at one another, then paused to kiss gently, one reaching his gloved hands up to hold his partner’s weathered face. When their lips parted they smiled into one another’s eyes before they turned to continue on their way. It had the feeling of a special place, a private ritual, and Harry turned his head to watch them go, deeply affected by the sight. When he and Draco reached the spot, he paused, and Draco turned to look at him.  
  
Harry took his hands out of his pockets, and reached to bracket Draco’s face with them. He smiled into the light eyes, and leaned forward, kissing him slowly, deeply. Draco leaned into him and sighed into his mouth, angling his head, his gloved hand lifting to curl around Harry’s lapel. When their lips parted, Draco smoothed Harry’s coat with his hand and slowly opened his eyes.  
  
“That was lovely,” he murmured, his lips curving. Harry returned the slow smile.  
  
“Come back with me in fifty years,” he whispered. “Kiss me again, right here, in the snow, fifty years from today.”  
  
Draco studied his face for a long moment, his eyes shining. “It’s a date,” he promised. He kissed Harry once more, fleetingly, and they turned and began on their way. For some reason, Harry glanced over his shoulder to see that the two old gentlemen had paused and were watching them. He nodded once to acknowledge their presence, and they smiled, returning the gesture before looking at each other, then turning to walk slowly away. And almost as if it had been a sort of unspoken blessing, Harry felt warmth fill his chest.  
  
He and Draco would be back in fifty years. He didn’t doubt it for a moment.


End file.
